


Leaving home

by raiyana



Series: The Dwelf series [42]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Durin Family Feels, Dwarf Culture & Customs, F/M, Families of Choice, Family Feels, Gen, Goodbyes, M/M, Oaths & Vows, Pre-Quest of Erebor, Side Story, Singing Dwarves, leaving gifts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-09-26 02:41:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 22,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9858380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: The last night before the Journey begins.This will be one chapter per character, probably.





	1. Glóin's farewell

Glóin groaned. In the kitchen, Gimli was trying to explain to his Amad why he simply _had_ to join his father and Uncle as well as his cousins for the Quest. The merchant pinched the bridge of his nose. Gimli had been rehashing the same arguments ever since the Quest was announced and volunteers sought, but Glóin had been firm. Vár had not liked that he, himself, would be going, but she had been adamant that her son would not, and Glóin had more than agreed. He would not risk his precious pebble, even for all the riches of Erebor. Rightly, even the Princes were too young to go, he thought, but that was cousin Thorin’s headache. Glóin had more than enough in his own headache. Wee Gimli might resemble him physically, but his stubbornness came straight from his mother’s legendary temper, Glóin was sure…not that he would change a thing about his beloved Vár, but he was not blind to the formidable personality of the dwarrowdam who had married him. She had told him one day, only a slight century before, after she had beaten him soundly at sparring, that she was going to marry him, and Glóin – who had not actually believed she was serious – had laughingly agreed. Five years later, Vár had – after a glorious courtship of whirlwind romance, if he did say so himself – told him that they were going to marry soon, and Glóin had been unable to protest. He hadn’t rightly wanted to, obviously, though he _had_ expected that when he married, _he_ would at least be doing the asking… and he might have, if she had been anyone but the ever-impatient Vár. Glóin smiled to himself, listening to his wife losing her temper by inches. Gimli had also inherited his gift of gab, and the young lad was employing every trick he had learned at his Adad’s knee – all to no avail, which Glóin could have told him. One did not change Vár’s mind with words and speeches. One distracted her, until she came around – Glóin himself preferred to do it with kisses, but that would hardly work for their son. Not that Gimli needed help when it came to winning over his Amad, for Vár could often be found siding with him, but when she had made up her mind, she was implacable. Glóin could only be thankful that they were of one mind when it came to protecting their beloved child. Gimli was never going to have siblings, and both his parents went to great lengths to ensure that the one child they _did_ have stayed away from danger when they could do so without stifling his growth.

Glóin had at first attempted to reason with Gimli, tried to make him see that it was too dangerous for a 66-year-old Dwarf to undertake such a venture. He had also tried to use the time-honoured tactic of ‘You have to take care of your mother while I’m gone’; even if he had known that line had been doomed even before it left his mouth. The day Vár needed anyone’s protection, she had probably already departed for the Halls of Waiting he knew, and wee Gimli had wasted no time in pointing out that his Amad was a better fighter than almost anyone he knew, even Master Dwalin had to fight to win when they sparred. Óin had been collapsing in paroxysms of laughter by that point. Glóin scowled at the thought of his older brother’s tears of mirth. Vár herself had been absolutely no help that day, simply giving him _that_ look that told him exactly how poorly he was doing in her estimation… and after almost a century together, that look should not make him want to bend her over the nearest surface in the best way possible. Glóin scowled, listening to the wheedling of his son next door. Just thinking about the fierce looks on Vár’s face when she told him off had him ready to go, and Glóin really would prefer to spend his last few peaceful days at home with his wife and son without all these theatrics. The journey – with such characters as Kíli and Fíli, to say nothing of the notorious Nori – would certainly have more than enough theatrics to last Glóin a lifetime, he was sure. Who knew what would happen out in the wide world, filled with Men and poncy Elves and a bloody dragon at the end of it! Was a little peace too much to ask for before sending a Dwarf off on such a wearying trek?! His temper beginning to spark, embers fanned by every pleading note from his offspring, Glóin walked into the kitchen.

“Gimli,” Vár said tiredly, repeating herself for the Mahal-forsaken n-th time, “you are _not_ going with your Adad and Irakadad on this fool quest! That is the end of it. I don’t care if you’re almost fully grown, I don’t care if Kíli is going – he is still ten years older than you! – I don’t care if you spend the time from now until **Khebabnurtamrâg**[1] sulking, YOU, GIMLI GLÓINUL, ARE NOT GOING!” Glóin’s heavy hands landed on the lad’s shoulders. Though Gimli was filling out, and would have been conscripted if it had been a war going on instead of a voluntary expedition, the young Dwarf’s shoulders were still bony under his touch, and Glóin felt fiercely glad that he and Vár were united in the steadfast refusal of his pleas.

“I have told you before, **udshat **[2]**** , you are going to stay here, and help your mother run the business. Keep up your studies and your axe practises. I promise, you can come along on my _next_ quest, but you are too young for this one.” Moreover, Glóin silently swore to himself, after this, he would spend the next 66 years of Gimli’s life vehemently denying any task even remotely quest-like if that’s what it took to keep his son safe. He still had nightmares about Gimli’s birth, haunted by the memories of those tense hours where none could say whether mother _or_ child would live to see the sunrise. Vár nodded, smiling grimly as she read his mind. His wife was far too canny at times, but Glóin appreciated her shrewdness more than it vexed him, and really, if she had been a meek little thing, he would never have fallen for her at all. Between them, Gimli’s sigh sounded loudly, but he accepted the hug his mother offered anyway.  With a smile and a bit of honey cake, Vár sent him off to play – and the fact that Gimli still played, even if it was playing at axes and swords, meant they were right in keeping him home, Glóin knew.

“I will miss you, Kabalâlê[3],” Vár sighed, and Glóin pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her firm bulk. The multitude of skinny braids that held her hair tickled his cheek as he rested his face against her head, breathing her in.

“As I will miss you, Mamarbûna[4].” When her face tilted up for one of the bristly kisses she loved so dearly, Glóin obliged happily. If she would let him, he would spend whole days kissing her sweet mouth, but it seemed Vár had other ideas, grabbing him and leading him off to their bedroom with a mischievous smile playing over her dark skin.

 

Tomorrow, he would set off with Óin for the Shire where they were to meet their fourteenth member, but for tonight… for tonight, Glóin was home, and he would do his level best to leave his wife fond memories to warm her while he was gone!

 

 

 

(…he left her slightly more than that, but he wouldn’t know that until after Erebor had been won…)

 

 

 

###### notes:

[1] Forge Day Feast. The Feast marks the end of the winter season and falls on the 19th day of Afnu’khazâd(circa end of January).

[2] Greatest son

[3] My smooth talker  - affectionate nickname

[4] She who is spirited


	2. Gimli's oath

Gimli was sulking. When he heard footsteps, at first the thought it was his Adad come to tell him once more why he couldn’t go on the quest. It wasn’t fair! Gimli had worked hard on his axe forms, trying to prove that he belonged at Adad’s side! The footsteps stopped, and Gimli realised that it wasn't his father’s heavy thread far off, but Kíli’s much lighter figure right behind him. A hand landed on his shoulder.

“They’re still saying no then, eh, Gimmers,” his cousin asked, sympathetic. Gimli didn’t hear the sympathy, however, and just bristled at the pity he perceived. Angrily, he shook off Kíli’s hand, but when he turned around to scold the youngest Prince, Kíli’s face showed actual hurt, and Gimli’s tirade died in his throat.

“Sorry, iraknadad[5],” he sighed. “Yeah, Amad is firm and Adad didn’t budge either.”

“So you came up here to sulk?” Kíli asked. _Here_ was a cave the three cousins had discovered one of the days when they had been far too excitable to sit still for one of Balin’s lessons and skipped their classes. The looks on both their Amads’ faces when they had finally scampered home in the evening, hungry and covered in stone dust, with smiles wider than their faces had put paid to the idea of playing truant. No one had seen them leave, and until one of the Black Owl’s informants found their small hiding place, both Dís and Vár had thought them abducted or worse. The Princes, of course, were the Heirs of Thorin Oakenshield, but they were also direct descendants of Durin’s Line. Vár’s family, while not directly related to the ruler of the Blacklocks, had been very influential in the Orocarni and Gimli’s grandmother had been the heir to a vast mining empire before she ran off with the son of a Longbeard merchant and made a life in Erebor. Vár herself was by no means a quiet figure, but even the enemies a trader could accrue over time were substantial. It was both the first and the last time Gimli ran off without telling his Amad where he was going. Fíli and Kíli had also been scolded, though Dís had been far too happy that they were unharmed to be angry – at first. According to Kíli’s probably exaggerated stories, the lecture they got once she got past her shock was long enough to make them wonder if she meant to deny them a night’s sleep as punishment. The punishment they faced when Uncle Thorin got home and was told of their truancy, however, was almost worse. Dís was fire and steel, but her temper usually cooled as quickly as it flared. Thorin, on the other hand, no matter how much the siblings physically resembled each other, was the type to bear grudges for far longer than even an unreasonable Dwarf thought fair; again according to Kíli. It meant that he did not need to shout – though he sometimes did that, too – because having Uncle Thorin be _disappointed_ in you… that was the worst feeling _ever_. Gimli sometimes thought Kíli had a tendency to be overly dramatic, but he had been subjected to one of Thorin’s ‘I am very disappointed in you’-stares, and he had to agree, it was not something he wanted to bear again.

“It’s just not fair!” Gimli exclaimed, his volume almost startling Kíli, who had taken a seat on the small ledge that overlook the settlement. “You and Fíli get to go, why can’t I?”

 

Kíli suddenly felt the weight of the years that separated them keenly. “Because you’re still **khamûn**[6], Gimmers,” he said quietly. “Your parents have a say in whether you can sign any contracts until you are recognised as a responsible adult.” A smirk accompanied the term, Kíli being the first to admit that he was not always that responsible himself. “I am twelve years older than you, Gimli, and Fíli seventeen. We have been of age for years. Amad doesn’t want us to go either, you know, but she cannot stop us. We are Uncle Thorin’s Heirs and we will reclaim our homeland. Amad…” he trailed off, his thought unfinished.

“I know. I’ll miss you, though. Who will get me in trouble with you two gone?” Gimli tried to light the mood, but Kíli’s smile remained wan.

“True… Gimmers, will you promise me something?” Kíli asked, strangely serious. Gimli nodded. This grown-up side of his cousin only rarely showed, but when it did, his thoughts were usually very important. “While we’re gone… look after Amad, alright? We’re taking her whole family, there’s only you and Irakamad[7] Vár left who really know her. Just… don’t let her be alone, alright?” he paused, but Gimli knew he wasn’t done. He nodded either way, clasping Kíli’s arm to seal the oath in the old warrior style.

“I’ll look after Iraknana [8]Dís, Kíli Vílison, **ala abnathi **[9]****.” He swore, the most fervent oath he’d ever taken. Gimli would make sure his cousin did not get lonely.

“Thank you, Gimmers,” Kíli smiled, but his eyes remained serious. “If… if we don’t come back…”

“You will!” Gimli scowled. He wouldn’t even think about them not coming back. “Master Dwalin and Uncle Thorin are going. You have some of the best fighters with you; of course you’ll come home!” He shouted. Kíli’s solemn stare did not waver.

“If we don’t. **Akhjum gayad amê ra inridifi Amadmâ **[10]**.** ”

Gimli did not want to agree to this contingency, but he could see that his cousin would not relent. He nodded slowly. Tears were trailing down his cheeks this time as he spoke the binding words, “ **Ala abnathi, Iraknadad.** ”

 

* * *

 

 

“Amad,” Gimli said quietly, when they had lost sight of Adad’s and Irakadad Óin’s ponies.

“ **Kun** , **hursarus**[11]?” Vár replied. Her arm wrapped around her son’s shoulders in a comforting hug. They had watched Glóin leave before, of course, and Gimli had said goodbye to herself many times too, when either of his parents left with the trade caravans. This was not the same, she knew.

“ **Banathmi d’Kíli tada zânradîfi Iraknana Dís. Lo dai uzuslai.**[12]” Gimli said, slightly worried about his Amad’s reaction. When she just squeezed him a little tighter, he relaxed.

“ **Astu dashat galikh, Gimli. Astu ‘urganê**[13].” Vár pressed a kiss on his red curls, the many silver beads in her dark braids clacking together a sound he would forever think of as home, and her scent surrounded him. Later, he would be strong, like adad had told him to, but right now; Gimli buried his face in his mother’s chest and wept, already missing those who had left. “ **Hosh, Hursarusê** ,” Vár mumbled, but she kept petting his curls, braided in the style his father favoured, and let him wet her shoulder. Her little boy was growing up, but he was a still a child in some ways. Looking up, she caught sight of Dís, standing a bit further down the street of her house. The dwarrowdam, usually full of energy and zest for life seemed wan and tired. The two cousins by marriage exchanged a look of commiseration. Dís had lost her husband so many years ago, and now she faced losing her remaining family, her brother, and her sons. Vár’s heart bled for her. When Dís shuddered once, turning back to her house, Vár quietly added her own oath to her son’s. _You will not be lonely, Cousin. We will move in if we have to, but we will not leave you alone to fear the outcome of this venture._

 

###### notes:

[5] Cousin(m)

[6] Youth-man/youngster = someone not considered adult.

[7] Aunt

[8] Cousin(f)

[9] This I swear

[10] Please care for our mother.

[11] Yes, Tiny-flame? (The tiny-x construct is called the intimate diminutive and is used for terms of endearment, unlike the age diminutive x-ith, which is used only as endearments towards the very young or where the age difference is vast. Using this form rather than harsith(flame that is young) implies that Gimli is growing up.)

[12] I swore to Kíli that I would care for Cousin Dís. She will not be too alone.

[13] You are a good son, Gimli. You are my greatest pride.


	3. Óin's Silence

Óin was getting old. He knew that, and on some days, he actually _felt_ it. When he looked at the youngsters he had helped train, the apprentices that were the only children he would ever have, he truly realised how old he was. Vakri, his best journeyman, could have set up as a healer on his own years ago, but he stayed for Óin’s sake. Óin knew that too. Vakri had no family of his own, a surface-born orphan of parents who died from a plague they contracted in a Man’s village in the Marshlands. Óin had found the young Dwarf alone, begging for food, and brought him home. Vakri was his child in all the ways that mattered, to Óin’s mind, even if he had never adopted him. He would leave his practise here in good hands while he was gone, and Vakri would take care of those they left behind if he did not return, Óin knew.

“Mind you give Master Hragn’s medicine to his wife,” he said softly. He had been giving last-minute advice like that every day for the past few weeks, unable to get what he really wanted to say past the guard of his teeth. “Mrs. Farvi should be coming by later this week, her tea packets are on the shelf in my study.” _I think of you as my son, and I will miss you while I am gone. I worry that I leave you too soon, even though you are all grown up. When I look at you, I still see that 30-year-old dwarfling I found, but I also see the Dwarf you have become. I am proud of you._

Vakri just nodded. He knew how to hear what Óin did not say.

 

Later, as Óin walked out of the door of his practice for the last time, he did not say the things that he wanted, simply saying goodbye, almost as if it was any other day.

“Farewell, Master Óin,” Vakri said, “Good luck on your journey.” _Goodbye, Father. Be safe, and return quickly._

“Thank you, Vakri. I leave everything in your capable hands.” _You are my heir, son of my heart, and I fear that I will never see you again._

“I will not let you down.” _I will make you proud, Father…come back._

“I know.” _I love you._

Vakri hugged his old Master. Óin returned the hard embrace, and if a few tears escaped into either of their beards, neither mentioned it.

 


	4. Vár's Gift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one!  
> Only Dís and Fíli to go... maybe Thorin gets a say too, even if he isn't leaving home exactly...

In bed with her husband, Vár felt like the most desirable Dwarrowdam in all of Arda. Her husband, of course, was one of the best-looking Dwarrow she had ever met, and Vár felt quite happy with her choice. She tried not to worry about the oncoming separation, but as she fingered the gift she would bestow upon him in the morning, tendrils of fear snaked around her heart. Banishing her dark thoughts, Vár abruptly changed her mind, slipping the small silver-and-gold locket into Glóin’s palm where it rested on her naked breast. The soft kisses he had been pressing against her bare shoulder cut off as he lifted the small present.

“Your leaving gift,” Vár said, quiet but determined not to be weepy. She had never let him leave with the sight of her tears before, and she would not start now when the journey was so much more important than any of their trading caravans. She turned, resting her cheek against the red hair that covered his chest in a thick pelt. Running her fingers slowly through the curls, she watched Glóin trace the inlaid runes gently.

“Love,” he said hoarsely, Vár smiled. She pressed a kiss to his shoulder as he turned her gift over. “Protection.” Glóin whispered, tracing the runes. He smiled at her, kissing her forehead.

“Open it,” Vár said, returning the kiss. Inside, she had commissioned a scribe to draw the likeness of herself and Gimli, and even if she did say so herself, she looked darn good in the small drawing. Glóin’s smile clearly agreed with her, and his kiss this time was just as insistent as the stirring against her leg. With one last look, Glóin transferred her gift to his bedside table and returned happily to the task of showing her just how much he appreciated her. Vár purred. She would miss his boisterous laugh while he was gone, and the way he made her smile even on bad days, but she would- _Oh!_ miss his presence in her bed at least as much.

Glóin smirked up at her, and Vár impatiently guided his bearded face back to its previous occupation. Yes, her husband would be missed, and he knew it too. Of course, Glóin would also be missing _her_ and Vár was under no illusions that her husband would long for her company any less than she would his – between the sheets or not!

Vár was glad.


	5. Dori's Leaving

_Dori would have sworn she saw Nori’s distinctive peaks when she went to the market to buy something for their supper, but she shook off the thought. Nori had not come back once these past few years, leaving no word with the ragamuffins that came to her backdoor with his presents. Dori had learned a long time ago not to speak to Nori’s delivery boys, though they would usually accept a token of food for the delivery. She regretted their fight five years earlier, but she missed her little brother, her mithril-heart, that bright spark of mischief that Nori had always had, able to make her laugh even when Amad was dying, only holding on for Ori’s sake. Dori sometimes wondered if it had not been better for Arnóra to have died with less suffering, even if it would have stolen her mother at least five years earlier. She chastised herself for the thought, but she still felt – even if she now realised that Nori’s current lifestyle had always been nigh inevitable – that if Arnóra had died earlier, Nori might not have come to the Guard’s attention quite so soon. That was wishful thinking, she knew, because Nori had told her that their father, under the name Radulf, had taken him on as a protégé many years before Arnóra’s lungs, damaged by the smoke from Smaug’s fire and further harmed by the coal dust from the mines where she worked, had begun to fail her. Sometimes, Dori had envied Nori the time spent with Natfari, whom she had rarely seen herself, but at the same time, she had been aware of the danger his presence posed to their lives. Natfari was always careful, entering their little house quietly, and never in the same disguise, but her Adad did not have the same life as he had enjoyed in Erebor, spending enough time in Guard rotations that he could be home at least every third night. Dori remembered the day the dragon had attacked, shortly before the Forge Day Feast, when it had been permitted for parents to bring their children to work, to show them what they did for a living. She had begged for WEEKS before Natfari had agreed to bring her with him on Guard duty, having already spent many hours in her Amad’s wire-weaving workshop. When the fire and smoke clouded the hallways, she had been ripped away from Natfari, but someone she didn’t know had picked her up along with another little girl and carried her out of the inferno. Dori had not known at the time that Princess Frís had been her saviour, something she had only realised upon meeting the princess as an almost-adult in Ered Luin. By then, she had been used to hiding her femininity, having learned early on that it was far easier to avoid trouble with Men if they though she was male. The beard might have fooled them, but she did not want to give away her identity to other Dwarrow either, and so Dori, daughter of Natfari, had become Dori, First Son of Arnóra. Her mother had wept, as they re-stitched clothes to hide Dori’s bust and give her a more masculine shape. By now, braiding her hair as a male was second nature to Dori, and she was quite content never to have felt the Longing, because trying to explain her complicated relationship with her own gender would have been quite troublesome. The Sons of Arnóra were quite well-known, by now, with Ori making himself a name under Master Balin’s tutelage – for which Dori was grateful to her father, towards whom her feelings were even more tangled than towards her brother – and Dori herself had done more than well as a tailor and lace-maker, especially since she had met Princess Dís. Dís was one of the only ones who knew her true gender, but Dori knew that her friend would take the secret to her grave if need be. Dís had not liked that Dori felt she needed to hide, and sometimes she had invited her to the Royal house while her ‘boys’ – Dwalin, Thorin, Fíli, Kíli, and Balin – were out, in order to let Dori have a safe place to be feminine and pretty. Of course, Dori was always pretty, widely considered the most beautiful Dwarf in Ered Luin, and many had lamented the fact that such beauty was wasted on a male who had no interest in suitors. Dori had giggled when Dís brought her that bit of gossip, delivered in the Princess’ driest tones, but with her eyes showing her mirth._

_When she got home, having shaken off her musings on the past and almost forgotten the possible sighting of Nori, she had received the first shock of the day._

_Nori was in her kitchen. Dori dropped her parcels with a shriek, her hands flying to her mouth, but Nori handily grabbed her bags and put them on the table._

_“Nori…” Dori had not known what to say, and Nori had simply stood there, looking as though he was unsure whether he should have come. In two steps, Dori had reached him, pulling him into the tightest hug she had ever given him. “You’re alive!” as Nori’s arms hesitantly wrapped around her, Dori inhaled his familiar scent, a mix of leather, mineral oil and something herbal that always clung to his hair._

_“Hello, Dori.” When he tried to give her one of his unrepentant grins, Dori snapped. She had punched him in the stomach, hard enough to make him winded, before she had found her words._

_“FIVE YEARS, NORI! FIVE YEARS AND NOT A SINGLE WORD!” She shouted, and she DID NOT care if all of Granite Way could hear her. “YOU COULD HAVE BEEN HURT! YOU COULD HAVE BEEN DEAD!” her breath hitched, but her glare kept Nori seated, looking like he had as a Dwarfling when she berated him for getting in trouble with the Guard. “You could have been dead, Nori, and we would never have known what happened to you!” Dori’s voice lowered to a whisper, a broken sob on her next words, “Nori, you could have been just like Adad, just never coming home…” Dori crumbled. She was surprised when Nori caught her, sliding to the ground with her as he let her sob into his shoulder, stroking her braids gently. Dori’s anger calmed slowly._

_Nori had made a pot of tea, just the way she liked it, and silently pushed her cup towards her. Dori’s hands shook, but she lifted the cup and sipped her tea, staring at him in total silence. Nori looked skinny – but Nori always looked skinny – and slightly haggard, as though he had spent months on the road with little rest. Dori winced, but she did not apologise for hitting him, and Nori gave her that smile that meant he knew he had earned her ire and deserved everything she threw at him._

_“I’m sorry, Dori.” Nori eventually broke the silence, tracing the edge of his own empty cup with a finger that had a slightly crooked look to it, as if it had been broken and set by someone with little experience. It had not looked like that the last time he was home, Dori was sure. She reached out, covering his hand with hers and stilled its slightly twitchy movement._

_“I know, Nori. I’m sorry, too.” Neither of them needed to say more, and when Dori knocked her forehead against Nori’s, he gave her a soft smile and caught her up in a proper kin-blessing. Dori’s shoulders lost the last vestiges of tension, at least until Nori spoke once more._

_“I came to say proper goodbye, sister,” his voice was hoarse with unconcealed emotion and Dori stiffened once more._

_“What’s wrong, Nori?” she searched his face frantically, but Nori just sighed and pulled her back to rest her head against his._

_“I am going on the Quest for Erebor along with the King, Dori.” Dori’s second shock of the day was even more devastating than the first, but her first reaction, a vehement denial, died on her lips when she saw the look in Nori’s eyes._

_“Please, Nori.” She begged, “Please, don’t do this.” She knew his answer before he voiced it, however, and just caught him up in a wordless hug. “Thank you for coming back to tell me,” she whispered, her heart breaking into tiny pieces._

_“You’ll be good, Dori. Ori will take care of you, and I’ll do my very best to come back to you,” Nori swore. Dori almost believed that he would – in fact – return to her, but she knew her brother well enough to know that even if he used every trick in the book, he was going up against a dragon – not to mention all the dangers he might find on the road between here and Erebor – and she knew that this was his goodbye. Nori did not expect to live long enough to see her again once he left, and Dori knew it._

_“I’ll help you pack,” she whispered, and it was a declaration of love. Nori hugged her tighter. When he finally let go, they both wiped away tears, but Nori’s crooked smile had returned. That’s when Ori entered the house, like a harbinger of doom, and delivered the third shock of Dori’s day:_

_“Master Balin is going with Uzbad Thorin to Erebor! I’ve already signed up, I’ll be appointed official scribe. Master Balin says I can earn my Mastery writing the official account of the Quest!” Dori froze. Nori sent a despairing glance towards her, but Dori was speechless in the face of Ori’s excitement. “Nori’s here!?” the journeyman scribe exclaimed, hugging the Thief tightly. Dori screamed._

_When she had yelled herself hoarse, with unexpected but heartily welcome support from Nori’s impressive collection of curses, Dori looked at her brothers, feeling her heart break as surely as a glass orb under a smith’s hammer. “You can’t both leave me behind to wait for news, Nori,_ ” _Dori said, dashing away the tears she would not shed. “I expect it from you, but you can take care of yourself, I know. But Ori… please, Ori, don’t go get yourself killed like this too.” Looking at Nori, who – in a rare unguarded moment – gave her the smile he had always saved especially for her as a Dwarfling, her efforts were in wain. The tears began falling, and the next thing she felt was Nori’s slim arms wrap around her as he whispered soft Khuzdul into her ear. On her other side, Ori – who was right that he was an adult, she knew, but that didn’t stop her seeing the Dwarfling she had raised almost as if he had been her child – joined the hug. The three children of Arnóra spent the night curled around each other, looking for some sort of comfort._

_Three weeks later, Dori was signed up as the Quest’s jack-of-all-trades, strongly backed by Dís, who had given her a teary hug when Dori had come seeking her advice and realised that she had only one option, and surprisingly Dwalin. Dori was sad to leave her friend behind, but Dís had all but told her to go with her brothers, and Dori felt grateful to have such an understanding friend._

 

Dori looked over the three packs that littered her kitchen table. Nori’s, a little worn from use, but with so many extra pockets and other useful things stitched into the seams that she would never even suggest he replaced it, Ori’s, which was brand-new, and her own, by far the most bulky. Sometimes, it was good to have her strength, Dori knew, and she had caught the grateful flash in Dwalin’s eyes when she had signed on. The big warrior had met her through Nori, of course, but Dwalin had only challenged her to an arm wrestle once. Nori had suggested it, a drunken wager going round the table of the inn they found themselves in, and Dori had earned the moniker ‘The Strongest Dwarf in Ered Luin’ with as little apparent effort as when she lifted her mug of ale. She smirked at the thought of the look on the **Shumrozbid’s** face, flabbergasted had been putting it mildly, but she had earned a new kind of respect from Dwalin thereafter. With a sigh, Dori turned her attention to their saddlebags. She had decided to stitch a supply of gold thread – her mother had been a canny Dwarrowdam, and she had known many things that had been useful when they lived on the surface – into their clothes seams, so they would have money, even if they lost their packs. Most of their food would be in the saddlebags, but she made sure to stuff a bundle of oilcloth-wrapped cram into the bottom of each pack, on the basis that the ponies might run off with their saddlebags. They’d each have a small blade – Nori had obtained these, and Dori knew better than to ask where he had found three blades of exquisite quality on such short notice – strapped to their belts, which had more holes than necessary, in order to be cinched in when they lost weight on the journey. Dori had been stuffing all three of them full of the richest foods she could get her hands on since they had decided to go, and even Nori now had a small layer of extra padding around his middle. Dori had – at the urging of Dís – asked young Prince Kíli to help her create extra pockets in her own and Ori’s boots. Nori’s already had such, each boot carrying two small blades cleverly hidden in invisible pockets. The Prince had been so excited about the idea that he had promptly added more pockets to his own and Prince Fíli’s boots. King Thorin had already been gone, but Dori would not be surprised if Masters Dwalin and Balin also sported boot pockets when they all met up in the Shire. All their cloaks had been treated against the weather, and lined with a layer of silk Dori had once bought from a merchant and then never had opportunity to use. The silk would ensure that the cloaks were warm in the cold but not overly hot when the sun shone, and Dori had noticed that Nori had stitched superstitious luck-knots and old traveller’s blessings along the hems. The thought made her smile, an old habit of their mother’s carried on in Nori’s fine stitches. He had learned the knot-language from Natfari, Dori was sure, and she still had some of the frankly beautiful knots he had tied when he was still learning. She had one that spelled her name, with each knot meaning beautiful sister, and it had hung over her bed for many years.

When the packs were as organised as she could make them, Dori turned her attention to that night’s supper and the morning’s breakfast. She had set aside the whole day to get them all ready, handing the key to her shop to Dís for safe-keeping the day before and saying her goodbyes to her neighbours and few friends. When Ori got home – the lad had been adamant that he would finish his current project and bring the payment along on the quest against unforeseen events as he had called it – Dori was almost done cooking. They waited for Nori to make an appearance, but when it was an hour after normal suppertime, Dori tersely ordered Ori to eat. Her own stomach was in knots, and she could not stop herself from listening for the door – a rather useless occupation, as Nori always oiled all hinges when he came around and could move as quietly as a cat – but Dori tried to eat anyway. When they were done, she was grateful when Ori escaped to his own room, leaving her to fret by herself. Her baby brother needed a good night’s sleep. Dori did not, or perhaps could not, think of Ori without seeing his excitable Dwarfling face superimposed over his adult face, and he would always be her baby brother, even when he woke in Itdendûm and got to meet their father for the first time. When Dori finally went to bed, far later than she had planned, she did not think she could sleep, but sleep found her with surprising speed.

When Dori woke, the first thing she did was check on Nori. She had not heard him come in – a surprise, considering the stench of alcohol that drifted from his very skin as well as the fact that he was accompanied by Bofur, who had probably never even _heard_ the word stealth – and her relief mingled with fury until she was yelling at the two delinquents at the top of her lungs. Eventually, Dori took pity on them, both Dwarrow looking more than a little abashed and definitely hung-over. With a huff, Dori granted them each a token of her mercy: a cup of her secret hangover cure, which made Bofur call her many flattering things and apologise profusely for his drunken state. Nori simply sipped in silence, and ushered the miner out the door with a raised eyebrow at Dori, who huffed, cuffing him gently round the head. Nori grinned, tossing back the rest of his cup and beginning to check the gear she had packed.

They were delayed by several hours, but Dori knew they could make up the time on the road so she didn’t worry. Nori was – by far – the most travelled Dwarf of all the Company, she knew, and felt surprisingly good about their leaving Ered Luin. Waving back at her neighbours, Dori set off into the sunlight with a slight smile.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, backstories galore tonight. Can you tell that I rather love Dori?


	6. Ori's Send-off

Ori was probably the only Dwarf in the Company without mixed feelings about going on the Quest. Fíli and Kíli would never admit to fearing the outcome of the venture, but those who knew them well saw it lurking behind their eyes. Ori, however, was really only excited. Finally, he would get to see some of the world – like in Nori’s stories of his adventures in the far-flung corners of Arda! The Dragon awaiting them in his Mountain Lair was almost forgotten in Ori’s view of his near future. Given that he had never been good at making friends – really, the only Dwarrow he knew that were close to his own age were probably the Princes and the daughter of the butcher who lived next door to their house on Granite Way – Ori did not have anyone he truly wished to say goodbye to. Master Balin – whom Ori adored to an almost embarrassing degree – was going to be on the Quest, Dori – even though she had protested vehemently – was going too, and Nori, who hadn’t set foot in their home in the past five years, was also going, so Ori did not feel worried at all about his prospects. His siblings would look out for him, as he would them, and with warriors like Master Dwalin and King Thorin along, and even the two Princes, truly there should be little to worry about before they reached the Lonely Mountain. Ori had sometimes snuck down to the practice rings to watch the sparring – because Dori didn’t want him to join the proper training – and even if he did not have any experience, he knew that his position was important enough that the more battle-ready Dwarrow would keep him from the worst of the fighting. Nori had given him the slingshot he would be bringing as his weapon, as a gift for his fiftieth Nameday, and Ori quietly considered himself the best shot in Ered Luin among the younger Dwarrow, behind Prince Kíli, whose skill with the bow was considered almost Elven.

Ori was also happy that he would earn his Mastery writing the tale of the reclamation. As an experienced Journeyman, he could have set up a Scrivener’s Shop without any problems, but Ori wanted more than writing up letters. Ori wanted to be a proper Archivist or even the Royal Librarian, and when Master Balin had offered him the position of official Scribe on the Quest, Ori had almost cried with joy. Even Dori’s – and Nori’s, surprisingly – protests could not dim his joy in being chosen and asked personally by Master Balin. The old Uzugbad could have performed the task of writing their story himself, and Ori took it as the accolade that it was that he had been chosen to fill the position of **Zarabâl**[25]. It meant that Balin trusted in both Ori’s skill and diligence, that he had faith Ori would leave nothing unnoticed, making their record as comprehensive as possible. Balin had explained that he was going along as the diplomat and contract-maker, he would be the one drawing all the official documents, and he expected it would keep him busy to be the designated negotiator with all they met, which meant he did not also have time to do all the observation and note-taking necessary to write a proper Saga.

Another thing Ori felt was a benefit to going on the Quest, was spending time with his brothers. Of course, he lived with Dori and saw her every day, but Nori was almost never around, even if he did send home presents. When Ori was little, the presents had been mostly candy that Nori found in peculiar places, or a small trinket from wherever Nori had gone. Dori always said it was best they did not ask where their brother went, and the one and only time Ori had asked more than Nori had been willing to tell, his brother had disappeared for three months without word. When he came back, Nori told him gravely that Ori should not ask questions about Nori’s whereabouts, and he ought to keep quiet that they were even related. As Nori said, he did not go by Nori anywhere but Ered Luin, but even here, in Thorinuldûm itself there were people he did not want to bring back to Dori and Ori. That was the first time Ori had realised that Nori’s work was not within the lines of the law. He did not feel so strongly about it as Dori, who would bite her lip and spit lightning from her otherwise calm eyes when Nori showed up with things she believed were stolen. She always patched up whatever scrapes Nori had, however, and both of Dori’s younger brothers knew that her grumbling was based on deep and abiding love for them and worry for their safety, so Nori was never truly offended by Dori’s tirades. Ori nurtured a quiet wish that his siblings might be able to reconcile a little during the long trek to Erebor; the last time Dori had kicked out Nori had been five years ago, and they had seen neither hide nor hair of him since, until the evening he had been in the kitchen when Ori came home with his news of going on the Quest. Ori had been slightly puzzled to see him, for his sharp eyes had not missed the reddening that surrounded Dori’s eyes; as if his sister had been crying. Nori had been inscrutable as usual, at least until he started yelling on par with Dori, both of them trying to stop Ori from going. Eventually, Ori had to remind them that he was a century old and an adult, capable of making his own choices. That had not helped the yelling, with Dori blaming Nori for being a bad influence, which Nori protested loudly, and Ori denied in equal volume. When Dori had yelled herself hoarse, she had looked at the both of them, and Ori had been scared to see the tears well up in Dori’s eyes.

 _“You can’t both leave me behind to wait for news, Nori,_ ” Dori had said, dashing away the tears she would not shed. Two weeks later, when Ori was still adamant about going, Dori had sighed heavily. The next thing he knew, she had gone to the King and formally signed on for the Quest for Erebor.

When he returned from Master Balin’s office, having packed up several good quills as well as a bound stack of paper for notes and sketches, Ori found Dori alone in the kitchen of their little house on Granite Way. She had been a whirlwind of packing over the past few days, ensuring they all had adequate clothes, as well as as much food as they could reasonably carry. She had even used some of their coin to buy saddlebags, because Lady Dís had informed them they would be travelling on ponies in the beginning. Ori looked around for Nori’s easily recognisable silhouette, but his brother was nowhere to be seen, which made Ori slightly worried. Nori had promised that he would set off with them in the morning, and Ori knew that Dori would fret herself into lying awake all night if the star-haired Dwarf did not show. He wasn’t as worried, however, Nori always kept his promises; it was one of the things his brother had always felt strongly about. He might not be an honest Dwarf, Nori had said to a wide-eyed thirty year-old Ori, but he did have honour, and keeping his word was one of the ways he stayed the Dwarf Dori had helped raise. The two siblings ate a quiet dinner, with Dori constantly listening for the door, before she sent Ori off to check that all his materials had been properly stowed away and get a good night’s sleep.

Ori slept well, no dark dreams plaguing his mind, and in the morning, he giggled at Dori’s harsh awakening of the hung-over Nori and… he thought that Dwarf was named Bofur.

When they left, at long last, hours after they had meant to set off, all their neighbours had come out to wave off the Sons of Arnóra.

Ori smiled, waving at those he had known since he was a pebble.

They were on their way to adventure.

 

[25] Recorder/writer  –  professional title. (lit. He/she that is a recorder)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it is revealed that Dori is actually female. This will happen in Zahrar too, though not until Dori decides to change the braids that proclaim him a First Son.


	7. Nori's Troubles

_“Master Balin is going with Uzbad Thorin to Erebor!” Never had Ori uttered more damning words, in Nori’s opinion. “I’ve already signed up, I’ll be appointed official scribe. Balin says I can earn my Mastery writing the official account of the Quest!” Nori could occasionally be wrong, he thought, though he’d never admit it: THOSE were the most damning words little Ori had ever uttered. “Nori’s here!?” the journeyman scribe exclaimed, hugging the Thief tightly. Nori sent a despairing glance towards Dori, who seemed speechless in the face of Ori’s excitement._

_The rows that followed were legendary._

For once, Nori and Dori were in complete agreement. Ori was too young to risk his life on a Quest like this. Ori himself, however, was determined to go. All Dori’s huffing and lecturing did not change his mind, nor did Nori’s earnest pleas. The youngest son of Arnóra would be going to Erebor with King Thorin’s Company, and that was final. A week before they were set to leave, Dori finally caved. Not that she would let their younger brother, whom she had practically raised from a mere dwarfling, go alone, of course. No, now DORI was going to go too. Although Dori was strong, and quite handy with her sword and flail, Nori's big sister had not left the settlement since they arrived here. Mahal wept. 

Nothing Nori had said had changed either of their minds, which was why he was sitting in a dark corner of the Woolly Bear, nursing a tankard of ale. It was almost ready to join its brethren on the table in front of him, where Nori blearily counted 6 companionable steins waiting for their seventh member.

“Drowning your sorrows, Nori?” The voice that asked the question was usually one of the most jovial of Nori’s many acquaintances, but tonight, Bofur did not wear his customary grin.

“Brothers have joined up for Thorin’s quest,” Nori sighed, for even while drunk, Nori would never betray Dori's secret. It was his sister's choice to continue her pretence, and the younger Sons of Arnóra were used to referring to all of themselves as 'brothers' to outsiders. “Which means – even if I hadn’t volunteered already – I HAVE to go. Those two would never survive in the wilds, even with the likes of Shumrozbid Dwalin to look after them.” The Thief sighed heavily, draining his stein. Bofur – being the best Dwarf in Ered Luin – had already ordered him another, which Nori greeted with a wan smile.

“My brother and cousin are going too,” Bofur mumbled. “I didn’t really want to go, but they promised us free ale and an adventure. I couldn’t let Bifur go alone, you know. He’s… well…” Nori nodded sympathetically. Bifur – courtesy of the axe in his head – had a tendency to fall into uncontrollable rages at the most inconvenient times, like a true berserker of legend, but when the axe did not pain him, he was the sweetest, meekest Dwarf in Ered Luin. He was the best Cantor Ered Luin had ever fostered, it was said, though Bifur also had a reputation as a fierce warrior. Somehow the thought of Bifur being along was a comfort to Nori. That would be one Dwarf he would not need to worry about. “Bombur signed up as cook.”

“Do you want to get drunk, Bofur? Because I want to get drunk.” Nori interrupted. He was feeling nicely woozy already, but he would need a few more steins – maybe a whole keg – of ale inside him before going up against a Dragon would seem like a feasible task. He might have to break open the stronger stuff to make it seem like a _smart_ idea, mind, but with Bofur to help, Nori was certain they could manage a good booze-up. The Dwarf beside him, a spot of foam clinging to his droopy moustache, nodded happily. Nori congratulated himself. At least with Bofur along, entertainment was guaranteed. With another wave at the barmaid, Nori ordered another round. Beside him, Bofur, who had obviously had as much as Nori himself before joining the Thief’s table, was singing softly. When Geisli arrived, bearing full, foaming mugs, Bofur’s song rose and Nori recognised a verse of ‘Pour your brother’.

 _Cheers to the barmaid, she’s a saint_  
It’s wondrous how she stands the strain  
Catch me lass, I’m gonna faint  
Cheers to the barmaid, she’s a saint

“No, you’re not, Bofur,” the barmaid said with a wink, and Nori wondered idly whether Geisli had a soft spot for the Broadbeam miner. He chuckled into his stein as Bofur gave her his best soppy grin. “If you’re going to faint, I’ll leave it to the Stonedancer over there to catch you.” With a cheeky smile and a sway in her hips, Geisli was gone, her golden braids swinging loosely with each step. Nori elbowed Bofur. The hatted Dwarf’s soppy grin had turned genuinely sappy, and Nori was not in the mood to watch Bofur fall in lust with another bar-maid. He wanted company for drinking tonight, and if Bofur went off with Geisli, he’d have to drink alone, which was never as much fun.

“Cheers, Bofur,” he grinned, idly flipping a silver coin between his fingers. When he was drunk enough that he dropped it more often than not, he’d go home, he decided on a whim. Sleep it off at Dori’s place and set off with his brothers in the morning. Maybe. Nori scowled. Why did his brothers have to be so stubbornly honourable, he sighed. Beside him, Bofur’s tune had changed, and Nori caught a few strands of ‘Man in the Moon’ before the jolly toy-maker changed to a tune Nori did not recognise. “New song?” he asked. He didn’t really care, but the bard who was playing in the corner did not deserve the title. Anything was better than listening to that viol. It sounded like a dying cat. Nori wished that he had been able to convince Dwalin to come out tonight, but he knew that the big warrior would be staying with the Princess and the young Princes as well as Lord Balin. Nori scowled. This entire predicament was ALL Balin’s fault. He muttered as much to Bofur who drunkenly agreed. Nori didn’t care that Bofur’s slurred words came out as “Darn right, mate, old Magrin is bald”, it was still valid commiseration. He dropped the coin. Crawling under the table was the undignified way of retrieving it, of course, which was why Nori tried to reach it with his boot. He was not exactly sure how he ended up sat under the table, but he still had his ale, so he counted that as a win and drank the mug down. “Oooh, a shiny silver coin. Mine!”

“Whit ye sayin,” Bofur mumbled, climbing off the bench, every move exaggerated in the manner of drunks trying to appear less drunk than they are.

“Shiny coins!” Nori repeated, loudly. “Treeeassuuuure.”

“Oooh, I know a song about treasure,” Bofur mumbled.

“Oh Mahal’s Beard, if you sing that song about the pale gold again, I will cut you,” Nori groused. He had had to overhear- err, _listen_ to Thorin sing that several times over the past year, and though it was a good song, very powerful, it was also far too depressing for a night of drunken pre-quest revelry. “Sing something about kicking the dragon out of Erebor instead. Or about it getting indigestion and dying from eating all those Dwarrow in the sacking.” Nori was not a particularly politically correct drunk when he didn’t want to be, and with the Quest looming away mere hours from now, Nori did not want to be respectful.

“ _We drink to our youth, and to days come and gone._  
_For the age of oppression is now nearly done._  
We'll drive out the Dragon from this land that we own.  
_With our blood and our steel we will take back our home_.”

 

“What in the name of the Seven Fathers is that Bofur.” Beleaguered, Nori climbed back onto the bench, wrapping an arm around Bofur’s shoulders and hauling him up too. “Let’s hear it proper. Stand up!” casting stink eyes at the sorry excuse for a bard, Nori yelled into the room. “OI, YOU LOT. PIPE DOWN N LISTEN TO BOFUR! NEW SONG! NEW SONG!”

The chant was picked up quickly, Nori did know his audience after all, and most Dwarrow, drunk or not, would want to listen to a new song, even if the current offerings had not been so horrid. Bofur swayed gently, but he gamely climbed atop the table. Raising his mug, which was still half-full, Bofur opened his mouth.

_We drink to our youth, and to days come and gone._  
For the age of oppression is now nearly done.  
We'll drive out the Dragon from this land that we own.  
_With our blood and our steel we will take back our home._

All hail to Thorin! You are the High King!  
_In your great honour we drink and we sing._  
We're the children of Durin, and we fight all our lives.  
_And when Itdendûm beckons, every one of us dies!_  
But Erebor is ours and we'll see it wiped clean.  
_Of the scourge that has sullied our hopes and our dreams[17]_

 

With a bow that almost saw him tumbling off the table, Bofur finished the song, to raucous applause and clamours of ‘AGAIN, AGAIN’

Even Nori had to admit he was impressed with how quickly his fellow bar patrons picked up the song. The tune was simple, and of course everyone stopped for a drink after yelling Thorin’s name, but all in all the chorus – gamely directed by Bofur, who would have stumbled off the table in his enthusiasm if not for Nori’s grip on his legs – was a raving success. A few more repetitions in – heavily influenced by the ales that patrons kept sending them, Nori too had joined the table top directing, to massive cheers. When he whirled Bofur in a quick jig, he could have sworn he saw Geisli laughing her head off behind her apron, but Nori couldn’t be sure. Mostly because he found himself on the floor, bracketed by Bofur’s arms on either side of his head and the miner’s body heavy on top of his own breathless chest.

The kiss was accidental, honestly. Not that they hadn’t shared a tumble before, but Nori generally had a policy of not tumbling people he would be working with shortly. In this case, however, he didn’t care and neither did Bofur apparently. When they finally got to their feet, an act which was severely hampered by the people trying to pull them up off the floor, Nori found, to take a bow, Bofur’s hand was still clasped around his arm. Staggering back to their table, Nori found four more mugs of ale waiting for them, which made him quite happy. Bofur joined him, which also made him quite happy.

When they finally staggered out of the inn in the wee hours of morning, Nori did not care that Bofur followed him home. The two friends fell into bed and were out before their heads hit the pillow.

 

 

###### notes:

[17] Adapted version of ”The Age of Oppression” from Elder Scrolls: Skyrim game © Bethesda Softworks


	8. Bifur's Lay

Bifur spent his last day before leaving for the Shire mostly alone. He walked, singing softly to himself, through the ruins in which he had played as a dwarfling, through the streets he had known as a young Dwarf, past the old Healer’s place on Shale street where the Healer who had declared him dead after the axe hit is head had had his home. Bifur sneered at the building. The stone lintels were crumbling, a house long-abandoned by anyone who would conduct their business in daylight. Bifur was saying goodbye. He knew that the chances of him returning were slim, even if he survived the Dragon, a thought that did not scare him as much as he had thought it would. As he walked, he could feel the stone around him pick up the Song, even if some of the shale that lined Shale street took on the Voice better than others. In his wake, they sung back, giving him their farewell.

When Bifur had finished his goodbyes, he made his way to Bombur’s house. His cousin was not yet home from work, but Athalrún had made a lovely supper and little Borkur jumped onto his lap and refused to be set down. Bifur smiled. The little ones always understood him, even before they could speak. He hugged the small dwarfling. Borkur’s smile lit up the room. Beside Bifur Fjelarún was telling him all about her day. Her best friend, Nýr, had brought her new kitten to school, and Fjelarún was trying to convince her Amad that _they_ should have a kitten too. Bifur smiled. This was his home, and it would remain his home even when it moved to the green stone of Erebor. When Bofur arrived, having stopped at their house for a wash, getting rid of the mining dust and grime, he was welcomed just as enthusiastically by the dwarflings. Athalrún’s gentle smile encompassed them all in warmth, though Bifur felt his earlier melancholy pressing in aound him. When Blidarún arrived, trailing her adad, who had picked her up on his way home, their family was complete. Bifur could see his good-sister’s dread, thinly veneered by her smile and he knew that Bofur was even more entertaining than usual in an attempt to alleviate her fears. Bifur simply squeezed Athalrún’s hand and listened to the sound of home.

When he and Bofur reached the Woolly Bear, having left Bombur to say his goodbyes in private, Bifur realised quite quickly that he did not actually feel like drinking. Bofur, who seemed determined to finish at least a whole keg by himself, made him decide to stay, though he stuck to his one pint while he watched Bofur down several. When he caught side of Nori’s distinctive peaks – Bifur did not know why his friend Dwalin had vouched for the Thief on their journey, but he trusted Dwalin’s judgement – he nudged his cousin. Sending off the miner to drink with the Thief was an easy choice, and he pled a head ache to make Bofur’s sad mien vanish under his cousin’s concern. Bifur left the Woolly Bear with a smile, setting off for his house.

Making it to his own front door, Bifur was not surprised that lamps burned inside. Bombur, while a devoted father, would have tasked Bolbur and Blidarún with looking after their younger siblings while he said goodbye to their mother, and the dwarflings had always entered his house freely. Opening his own front door, Bifur was caught by the sight of Bolbur and Blidarún re-enacting the tale of his own almost-fatal injury, with Blákur as the stand-in for Bofur, pleading with the ‘Healer’ – Blidarún was wearing her apprentice garb for the role – and Bolbur as Bifur himself. The Blacklock merchant was being played by a hat stand, which made him smile, and little Borkur was sat beside Fjelarún, clapping happily at his siblings’ antics.

Bifur’s night passed peacefully, in a pile of nieces and nephews, telling stories and singing songs. None of them had shown the almost mythical signs of being able to Sing, though Fjelarún and Blákur both had lovely singing voices inherited from their grandfather, Radsvidar the Bard, so they did not understand the High Khuzdul like a Singer would, but they still understood him better than anyone else outside the few Singers in Ered Luin.

 

 


	9. Bofur's Song

When Bofur saw Nori, he was already well on his way to being drunk. Bifur had joined him at first, but the noise of the inn had been too much for his cousin, and the Cantor had returned to Bombur’s house to await morning. Bofur probably should have followed, but here was Nori, looking far too morose to be left alone by anyone who would call themselves a friend. Bofur nodded to himself, making his way between the table, ale in hand. They could be depressed together, if nothing else. He had been trying to write a cheerful send-off earlier, that they could sing as they left, but so far he had not had much success. He couldn’t seem to get the right mix of sad parting and optimistic journeying into the verses. Geisli was pretty tonight, at least. Well, she was always pretty, Bofur was willing to admit, but his current hazy outlook made her even _more_ pretty, surely. When she brought over more drinks, he flirted gamely with her until Nori’s pointy elbow hit his ribs and he was instantly reminded of the other Dwarf’s presence. Bofur scowled, but Nori paid him no mind, drinking deeply. Bofur did not think Nori would be able to catch him if he _did_ faint. He giggled.  
Suddenly Nori was gone, and Bofur hazily wondered where he’d gone without saying goodbye when he heard Nori’s muffled voice from under the table. Intriguing. _Why was Nori under the table?_ Probably not for the reason Bofur would have enjoyed most, he had to admit sadly; The Thief’s mouth was glorious, as Bofur had had occasion to learn before. Maybe Nori would be up for a pre-quest tumble? With a happy grin, Bofur slid slowly off the bench, intending to ask Nori if he was interested. When he got under the table, however, Nori derailed his thoughts entirely with talk of treasure. Bofur opened his mouth to ask about possible after-tavern locations, but what came out was a boozy “I know a song about treasures.” which was apparently not what Nori wanted, Bofur thought sadly. When he had managed to extricate himself from under the table without landing in Nori’s lap – was the Thief trying to get him into bed? – there were easier ways of doing that. Bofur considered simply telling Nori he was amenable, but suddenly the lyrics he had been struggling with aligned perfectly in his head and he couldn’t help but sing a few lines just to hear if they made sense out loud. The look on Nori’s face was priceless. Bofur was not rightly sure how he ended up on top of the table, swinging his tankard and bellowing the words he had just made up, but it was all good fun. Nori dragging them both off the table by falling over was hilarious too, and his mouth was a soft and sweet as Bofur remembered. He smiled. Maybe the Thief did want him tonight. Getting back up was a bit of a challenge, but the four ales worth of a reward made it almost worth it. Bofur dragged Nori with him. He was already too drunk to do much more than stagger, but it would be a waste of Geisli’s fine ale to leave the tankards to go flat, Bofur thought, a heinous crime that not even Nori would perpetrate.

The next morning, Dori’s lecture – loud and far too ear-piercing, in Bofur’s opinion – woke him far too early. The tailor had not a single bone of mercy for a poor overindulgent Dwarf in his body, however, and he _was_ probably right that Bofur should go home and check that all his gear was packed. With a last sad glance at Nori and a mug of Dori’s hangover cure in his hand – and Bofur would never tell Master Dori the unkind thoughts he had had about him in the morning for fear that he would not be permitted the miraculous beverage again – Bofur stumbled back to Bombur’s home. He passed the old healer’s house on the way, but Óin had probably already left or spent his night elsewhere.

When he got home, Bombur – the brother of all brothers, Bofur swore it to Mahal – had already packed for him, and Athalrún had packed his favourite breakfast nibbles in a piece of cloth for him to eat when his stomach stopped rebelling at the swaying gait of the pony. Not for the first time, Bofur praised the forethought of his brother in finding such a wife. Athalrún was a blacksmith, even if she did spend most of her time looking after all the pebbles, who each got a hug from Uncle Bofur, and Bofur could not have asked for a better wife for his shy brother. Bombur had a tendency to be a bit of a wall-flower, but Athalrún brought out the best in him. Bofur wondered if it was the ale of the night before, or the imminent departure that made him so maudlin, but Athalrún did not protest when he sobbed something sappy into her shoulder, simply hugging him tightly. When all the little ones had received another hug, and the packs had been checked and rechecked, the three ‘Urs finally set off into the great big world, where a Dragon named Smaug awaited their arrival.  
First, however, they were to call at the home of a Master Baggins, Hobbit, who would be their fourteenth member. The inclusion of a Hobbit had puzzled all of them when it was announced, but Thorin had simply shrugged and called it a Wizard’s whim, which really did explain everything, to Bofur’s mind, even if Nori was slightly professionally offended that his services were not deemed good enough - the topic of his drunken ramblings all the way home the night before, in fact. He hoped there’d be food. Hobbits were said to be good for three things; food, pipeweed and tumbling, though he couldn’t imagine taking a beardless Hobbit into his bed. It would feel odd, Bofur thought, almost like bedding a dwarfling. He shuddered. Icky. Best stick to the food and the pipeweed. Bifur nodded sagely when Bofur shared the result of his musings on the topic of Hobbits, but he did not disagree, which meant Bofur had a valid point. They did not meet the three ‘Ris on the way, so Bofur did not get to ask Nori’s opinion. The well-travelled Dwarf would probably have more knowledge of these Hobbits, and it would have been nice to know what they were getting into, Bofur thought.

Later, he would decide that his first thought had been entirely right. The food was glorious and the pipeweed, while a lot milder than the one Dwarrow favoured, had a nice mellowing touch, which he thought he could come to enjoy, even if their host looked like a beardless child.


	10. Bombur's Legacy

Bombur spent his final day in Ered Luin in the kitchen of the restaurant he worked for. Calling it a restaurant might be a bit of a stretch, as the clientele was mostly miners and smiths, his own Athalrún a beloved patron when she came round for lunch. If she had had a good day in her forge, she might be persuaded to sing something before she ate, which was always a treat and doubly so for Bombur, who loved her singing. He had many happy memories from the eatery, where Bofur’s crews often found their hearty dinners and even the upper class Dwarrow of Ered Luin had been known to seek out Bombur’s meat pies. Kjalarr’s Food Hall served everyone and anyone, and Bombur had had several miners try to persuade him to stay in Ered Luin with offers of coin, rather than head off to Erebor. He did not take the miners seriously, simply because he did not believe that his food – while Bombur considered himself a more than fair cook, he served simple, but filling, fare at Kjalarr’s – warranted the level of adoration bestowed upon him. When the time came to collect his last payment from Kjalarr, however, his old friend added his voice to those protesting Bombur’s decision.

“If you’re sure I can’t change your mind, Bombur, I will wish you best of luck on your journey,” Kjalarr said heavily, tossing a bag of coins at Bombur. “ **Mukhuh mabaddakhi ya bunmû Mahal. **[21]**** And tell that wife of yours that I’ll hear her voice in my Hall again while you’re gone.” He added, solemnly nodding at Bombur, who returned the gesture with equal solemnity. He could already feel that the coin-bag was heavier than usual, and he knew that Kjalarr meant the extra coin to help him on his journey, even if the old greybeard also knew that Bombur would leave the money for Athalrún to spend in his absence.

“I’ll convey your invitation, Kjalarr,” Bombur replied quietly. “Thank you. **Mukhuh targzu satarrigi sigin.**[22]” Kjalarr patted his rather impressive facial hair with a twinkling smile in his eyes before waving Bombur out the door.

Making it to the House of Healing that belonged to Master Óin, Bombur thanked the Maker that Lord Víli – who had worked with both he and Bofur in the mines before the terrible accident that killed him – had introduced him to the old Master. Blidarún was under the tutelage of the best Healer in Ered Luin, and Bombur knew that they had never paid Master Óin what his skills were truly worth. He would be happy to walk across Arda alongside the gruff old Healer, and privately swore that he would ensure that Master Óin receive a generous share of the food for his kindness in taking on Blidarún. When he knocked on the door, young Vakri answered. Bombur exchanged polite greetings with the journeyman Healer, who would be taking over teaching Blidarún while they were gone, something he also owed to Óin’s kindness.

“Master Bombur, you’re here for Blidarún?” Vakri asked, and Bombur nodded silently. The young Healer smiled, disappearing back into the Healing House and reappearing a few minutes later with Blidarún eagerly following, talking a mile a minute about the surgery Óin had let her assist with that afternoon. She had only fetched instruments and held the light, but going by her excitement, she had helped set the man’s finger bones herself. One of the frequent mining mishaps had led to an unlucky miner breaking three fingers, normally not something that required surgery, except this time the third finger had snapped in such a way that the bone poked up through the skin. Óin had repaired the fracture, in a procedure his daughter described so vividly Bombur rather hoped that Athalrún had not planned for sausage as their supper that evening. Above Blidarún’s head – though the Dwarf blood was stronger than the Hobbit in Athalrún’s line, most of Svari’s descendants exhibited some Hobbit traits and Blidarún was shorter than the average Dwarf – Vakri smiled softly, patting her shoulder to get her out of the door. Bombur nodded once to Master Óin, before he grabbed his daughter’s hand and began herding her back towards their house.

When they arrived, the house was filled with the smell of Athalrún’s cooking – not sausage, a lovely venison stew – and loud with the presence of thir loved ones. Bofur was telling a tall tale in the corner of the kitchen while Athalrún hummed at the stove. Bolbur – also returned from the forges – was playing with Blákur and Fjelarún while little Borkur had taken up his usual seat of Bifur’s lap and was babbling away at his silent Uncle. Bifur looked up, but only greeted the newcomers with a smile. Bombur, in a fit a theatricality that made his children grimace, swept into the kitchen, bending his wife over backwards in a dip that made her braids swish over the floor and stole her laugh with a deep kiss that drew a hoot of laughter from Bofur.

 

“Adad, Adad!” Borkur shouted, excitement colouring his eyes – a peculiar green he had inherited from his Hobbit ancestry – as he bounced on Bifur’s lap. “Amad made you a present!” Bombur looked up from his almost empty bowl and caught Athalrún’s soft smile. He reached over to squeeze her hand.

“She did, aye?” Borkur nodded, almost falling off his perch with excitement. Beside Bombur, Blákur sighed, exasperated with the Dwarfling’s antics.

“Shall I fetch it, Amad?” he asked quietly. Of all his children, despite the dark hair, Bombur thought Blákur resembled him the most. Bolbur, his eldest, took after his own father, broad and strong, with the red hair that had also passed to Bombur himself. Blákur’s dark locks, curly like his mother’s but the colour of tar, hid a quietly studious mind. At thirty years of age, he had already begun studying for an apprenticeship with Master Balin, as a scrivener. Young Ori, Master Balin’s Journeyman Apprentice, would be joining them on the Quest as the official Scribe and Historian, while Blákur’s lessons would be taken over by Master Oneisi. Fjelarún, her mother in miniature, but with Bombur’s copper hair, wanted to be a Bard like her grandfather, and Bombur knew that she would have no trouble finding a Master in a few years. He tried not to wonder what their little Athalrós might have been, but when their family was altogether like this, he found it difficult not to imagine what she might have looked like sitting next to her sister. It was too early to tell what Borkur would become, but Bombur quietly wanted him to follow in his own footsteps and take up a building trade. While Bombur had been lost in pensively gazing at his children, Athalrún had nodded t Blákur, who had run into their bedroom and returned swiftly with a package. Little Borkur had obviously seen it, though Athalrún had wrapped the object in what Bombur recognised as his travelling cloak, and had told his siblings, who were trying not to giggle. Bombur took the oblong shape from his son with a wary glance at his wife, whose eyes were dancing with laughter. It was a sight that – even sixty-odd years after he had first seen it, grimy from travel and tired from a hard day on the road – took his breath away. In his eyes, he had the most beautiful Dwarrowdam in Ered Luin – and elsewhere, obviously – for his wife.

“Open it, Buknakun,” Athalrún said mildly. With a grin at her children, she continued cheekily, “Your son already named it, a most accurate term.” Bombur slowly unwrapped the cloak until he held… a ladle.

“ **Il-lebaluzars** ,” Blákur chuckled, setting off the laughs around the table as Bombur held the Battle-Spoon high with a loud war-cry. Athalrún leaned against his arm, and when she pressed a soft kiss on his cheek, Bombur wrapped his free arm around her and kissed her full on the mouth.

“I say it’s the perfect weapon for a cook!” Bofur called from across the table.

“Made by my perfect wife,” Bombur agreed quietly. Bifur muttered something melodious in High Khuzdul that Bombur didn’t catch entirely, but his cousin signed the meaning in Iglishmêk a second later. In his hand, the Battle-Spoon felt heavy in the way a good weapon suits the hand it was made for. Turning over the gift, he squeezed Athalrún’s compact form when he caught sight of the small runes inlaid in the darker iron. _Bombur._ _Athalrún. Bolbur. Blidarún. Blákur. Fjelarún. Athalrós. Borkur. Bofur. Bifur._

“When you return it to me, I will engrave the name of our new pebble here,” Athalrún pointed at the blank space between Borkur and Bofur. “So you will always have your family with you.” Bombur had to kiss her again, for that. Under his free hand, the pebble moved, as though aware that she was being spoken of. Athalrún claimed that the pebble would be a girl, and had been convinced of the veracity of the claim since she learned she was pregnant. She had done the same with all her other pregnancies, even if she had not known at first when she was carrying twins, but she had known the sex of each child, so Bombur did not argue when she told him that he would have a daughter in another three turnings of the moon.

“Thank you, my love.” Bombur barely realised the departure of his brother and cousin, though he roused enough to send Bolbur a grateful smile when he and Blidarún scarpered with their younger siblings. At fifty and forty-five years of age, the two were almost twins, to Dwarrow minds, and rarely needed to speak their plans aloud for the other to pick them up. Bombur knew they were being given time alone, and he appreciated the chance to lie quietly with Athalrún in his arms and not have to worry about his children for the night. Being part Hobbit, even if the blood was now so diluted that the effects were only notable because he knew the reason, his children seemed to mature slightly faster than Dwarrow generally did. Physically, a Dwarf would be grown by age 25, though some matured earlier, becoming Battle-Ready – as it was known – as early as 20 winters. Mentally, however, Dwarrow remained Dwarflings until about 70 winters had passed, and spent the intervening years learning their Crafts or trades as well as growing up.

Holding his wife in their bed for the last time in who knew how long, Bombur tried to remain confident that he would get to see hi youngest daughter grown up. With Athalrún resting against his girth, her head pillowed on his chest and his own arm wrapped securely around her growing waist, he almost believed it, only a sliver of dread left. Running his fingers through her dark brown curls – unbound for once, for his sensual pleasure, he knew – he tugged slightly when she spoke. Her fingers wound their way into his massive beard, and Bombur idly wondered if Bolbur would end up with as glorious a beard.

"Promise me you'll come back, **Buknakun**[23]." When she finally gave voice to her fear, Bombur couldn’t help but stiffen. With effort, he kept his own voice calm and soft.

"I'll do my very best, my love...promise me you'll be here to greet me." He did not want to imagine that she would not be, but even after six births, he worried that the new pebble would claim her life. He knew that he had not managed to keep his worry entirely concealed, could taste the sting of desperation in her kiss.

"I will. And our daughter too." She whispered, sealing the promise with another kiss. Bombur sighed, wrapping her in his warm arms. He felt horrible that she would be going through the final stages of her pregnancy alone, even if he felt even more terrible that there would be no way for him to receive news of her trial. Until he either died or returned to Ered Luin, he would not know if his wife or pebble lived, a thought that filled him with dread.

"If you need anything, go to the Lady Dís." He said, hoarse with unshed tears. Athalrún’s kiss this time tasted salty, wetter than before.

"I know."

"I love you, **luslasul**[24].”

"And I love you"

Neither spoke again during the long hours of the night, though they both knew the other wasn't asleep.

 

 

 

 

[21] May we meet again with the grace of Mahal.

[22] May your beard continue to grow longer.

[23] Tiny-dawn, nickname.

[24] Tiny-rose, nickname

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, two chapters in one evening! This sorta wrote itself in about an hour, so it might be terrible, but it's *yikes* 3:34 am so I'll save editing for tomorrow night, eep!


	11. Athalrún's Gift

Athalrún considered herself fairly easy-going. With five children to look after and a sixth on the way, being easy-going was almost a requirement of life. That did not mean she had no worries, however, and the first time her gentle soft-spoken husband talked about reclaiming Erebor, Athalrún did not feel easy-going. Bombur wanted to go, wanted to protect his brother and cousin, and she did understand that. What she did not understand was why they had to go at all. In her nightmares, Bombur’s rotund shape - her Hobbit great grandmother would have been proud of the girth of her husband - was far too tempting for all manner of beasts to gobble up. She kept her family well-fed and happy, and now her husband wanted to tear it apart on this mad venture. Ever since that first night, when he had sat her down and told her about the king’s plans, Athalrún had faced her fears at night. If Bombur was not being eaten by a warg or - Mahal forbid - Smaug himself, she saw Bifur throw himself between his cousins and an orc blade, or she watched as Bofur, lovely, jovial Bofur, who was the best brother a dwarrowdam could want and the best uncle for her pebbles, lay dead on the ground, burned to cinders.

Athalrún did not want her family to leave, did not want her husband missing the birth of their little one, but Bombur had set his mind to the task. He would help reclaim Erebor and they would build a better life than they could in Ered Luin with her smithy and his part time jobs. Bombur was an architect, and he had earned his mastery through years of hard work, even though no one needed real architects in the Blue Mountains. He worked in the mines as a fault finder, but that was dangerous work and he preferred the kitchen job he had landed twenty years ago which allowed him to spend only one in 6 days in the mines and still feed their growing family. It was lucky that neither Bofur nor Bifur had married, in that regard. The two shared a house next to Athalrún and Bombur’s, for when the noise of the little ones brought on Bifur’s headaches, but otherwise they spent their time together as a family. Pooling all their incomes meant they had more food than most other families, and Athalrún wondered how she was going to keep it all together alone. This too, however, Bombur found an answer for. The crown would pay for their food and lodging on the journey in return for Bombur’s skills as a caravan cook.

Before the children began arriving, Athalrún had been a travelling smith, and Bombur had first caught her attentions with his delicious rabbit stew. Merchants usually employed one cook for the caravans, along with several guards. Bifur had not yet had the axe in his head then, and worked with master Dwalin as a caravan guard. Bombur had been hired as the cook and Athalrún had joined them for protection during her own first journey across Arda in return for mending broken metal along the way and singing the old lays at night. Not many knew that she was the daughter of a bard, and had learned that trade before her skills with metal proved more profitable. As she lost herself in fond memories, the pebble inside her moved in time with her wringing hands. She looked at her leaving gift. It was good work, honest and useful, even if it was inspired by a childhood bedtime story. Her great-uncle or something Bandobras Took had apparently once swung a club hard enough to behead the Goblin King. Athalrún had fought goblins in her day, and considered the story rather ridiculous, but it was the children's favourite hobbit story and it always made Bombur laugh. She turned the heavy ladle in her hands. Along the shaft, she had etched the names of their family, traced each rune carefully in silver.

"Is that Adad's leaving gift?" her thoughts were interrupted by a small voice at her elbow. Seven-year-old Borkur was standing on tip-toes trying to see over the top of her workbench.

"Aye, **halwith**[18]. It's a ladle and a weapon." She picked him up, even with her growing belly there was still room for little Borkur on her lap.

"You made a battle-spoon!" Athalrún’s laughter joined her youngest child's. It was a ridiculous weapon, but it was made with love and she was sure that it would work. Bombur had never been much for fighting, had learned neither axe nor sword, and he couldn't wield a long-handled mace either. Bofur, of course, had brought the equally-ridiculous-as-a-weapon mining tool he had used every day working in the mines, both as defence and reminder of his home. If his brother could use a bongy-knocker, Athalrún saw no reason her Bombur could not use a ladle - or _battle-spoon_. At least there were no sharp edges for Bombur to stab himself with, she told herself in an effort to cease her worrying, and whether it was used as a club or for making stew, her battle-spoon would be useful. It would remind her Bombur that he was loved as well as who he was on the quest for. The unborn pebble turned over, as restless as her mother.

"Have you and your sister finished setting the table? Adad will be home from work soon."

Borkur nodded, but the way he scurried off told her there were no dishes on the table yet. Athalrún wisely moved slowly into the house, giving her two rascals time to finish their chore. Their eldest daughter was at her master's but would be home after supper. After tonight, she would be home every night. With Blidarún's master, Óin, going on the quest, Blidarún had been taken on by the senior journeyman, but there was no space for her in Vakri's house, and with the pebble due in three months, Athalrún was glad that Blidarún would be staying at home. A new pebble was always exhausting, and this time Bombur would not be there to help her, nor would she be able to send off the older children to be looked after by one of their uncles.  
Looking at the dubiously named battle-spoon in her hands, Athalrún tried to reassure herself that her family would still be whole in a year's time. She did not succeed entirely, and even a dinner filled with Bofur’s jokes and Bifur’s calm reassurance fell short of banishing her fears. When the two cousins left for one last night at the tavern, Blidarún took her younger siblings to play in their uncles' house, leaving Athalrún to fall apart in Bombur’s arms. Bombur’s steady heartbeat under her ear as they lay in bed together calmed her slightly, though her dread remained.

"Promise me you'll come back, **Buknakun**[19]." She whispered into the darkness after many quiet minutes. She curled her fingers into his massive red beard as he tugged the curly strands of her hair.

"I'll do my very best, my love...promise me you'll be here to greet me." She kissed him softly. She was heading for her own battle after all, and she was not the only one who worried.

"I will. And our daughter too." She whispered, sealing the promise with another kiss. Bombur sighed, wrapping her in his warm arms.

"If you need anything, go to the Lady Dís."

"I know."

"I love you, **luslasul**[20]."

"And I love you"

Neither spoke again during the long hours of the night, though they both knew the other wasn't asleep.

 

 

 

###### notes:

[18] young-sugar, nickname.

[19] Tiny-dawn, nickname.

[20] Tiny-rose, nickname


	12. Balin's Word

Unlike the rest of the Company, Balin did not spend the day saying goodbye to his favourite haunts in Ered Luin. Though they had had good times there – as well as poorer times, it had to be said – Balin did not think he would miss it. Instead, his thoughts were determined to stray to the ones he had lost in the sacking of Erebor. His Amad’s gentle nature, her voice raised in Song, her beautiful blue hair, which he had inherited from her Stiffbeard kin, but which had turned entirely white over the last ten years, mingled with memories of his Adad’s booming laugh. It was a sound he had not thought of for more years than he cared to think of, and a sound he had not heard since that fateful day in 2770. Fundin had never recovered from the loss of Sigrún, and Balin sympathised, touching the edges of the wound that had been Skaro’s presence in his heart. They had been young, too young for the bond to form truly, but it had been instant recognition on both their ends. Their parents had, at first, been flabbergasted and then slightly outraged, when Balin – aged 25 – had declared that he had found his One in the Dwarf sat next to him at school. That Skaro had told his parents exactly the same, before the two Dwarflings had even spoken to each other, had been a source of amazement in the Court gossip.

That had been the impetus for Fundin – who had had a good position in Náin’s Court in the Iron Hills – to move permanently to Erebor. What had been intended as a month-long visit became a new home, and Balin had never been happier. He had worried about telling his Amad, but Sigrún had been more than supportive of his choice. She had never doubted the veracity of Balin’s statement, welcoming Skaro with open arms, even as the happiness of her son eventually removed her from the vicinity of her twin sister, something that tore at her heart every day, Balin knew. Sigrún had only lived in Erebor for little more than a decade, but she had been instantly accepted by its stone when she stepped over the threshold, gaining the empty seat of the Lady Cantor with nothing more than a single Song. The Master Singer, who had been searching through all the eligible youngsters for one that could be trained to take the Cantor’s position, had burst into their house on the morning of her and Dwalin’s arrival, breathless with excitement that the very Mountain was singing with happiness at her arrival.

Skaro’s absence, though still sore, it was no longer a raw wound in his heart, was a familiar pain after 170 years, and Balin was more than used to the way it plucked his heartstrings with emptiness where gentle warmth should have resided. That did not mean that he would give up even a single memory of his beloved goldsmith, and Skaro was always in the back of his mind. He had never felt the urge to love again, instead throwing all his heart into his work, helping Thorin resettle their people and shaping the young minds worthy of his talents. As he packed the last things he needed – taking Kíli’s rainproof cloak from his sap of a younger brother – his thoughts circled his dead One as often before. He idly wondered if Skaro had heard of their Quest from his place in Itdendûm, and as he touched foreheads with Dwalin, he swore once more that he would win back Erebor and find Skaro’s bones if he could. When he had realised what the emptiness in his chest meant, as they were fleeing across the plains between Dale and Erebor, Balin had made the only oath that had ever mattered. He had sworn to live, to be the best Dwarf he could be, to have lived a life full of tales he could tell Skaro when his heart was once again made whole, but also that he would not seek this reunion before his time came, and on his last night in Ered Luin, he reaffirmed that oath. He imagined that – wherever he was – Skaro was smiling at him, filling up his days with stories and crafts himself, for that far-off day when they would be together again.

Balin went to sleep with a peaceful smile, hopeful and content with how he would leave things. He would have his best journeyman apprentice along, letting wee Ori earn his Mastery in the swiftest way possible, but the lad was more than capable. He would be travelling with his brother, his cousins and his pseudo-brother and nephews, and Balin felt optimistic about the upcoming endeavour.

 


	13. Dwalin's Vow

“You will keep them safe, nadad…” Dís felt far older than her years. Dwalin’s large hand came to rest on her shoulder, pulling her against his wide chest. For once, Dís accepted the hug willingly. She thought of the way she had fought him _that_ day. She had come home, full of joy that she was to be a mother again so soon, only to find Dwalin and her amad in her kitchen, tears staining their grim faces. Frís had been holding baby Fíli, only four years old, and it had been Dwalin’s chest she rained blows on when they told her Víli had died in a tunnel collapse in the mines. It had been Dwalin’s attempt at comfort she had fought so hard, until she broke down, whimpering over and over that Víli could not be dead because she had to tell him she was pregnant. Weeks later, when Thorin returned with the sacks of coin that would feed them through winter, she had railed against him too, irrationally blaming his absence for Víli’s accident. Not that her brother had ever been near the mines except when the Foreman was reporting on the dismal state of their contents once a year, but Dís had not cared. She had needed her brother, and Thorin had not been there. Instead, she had had Dwalin, who had been meant to go as a caravan guard for Glóin, but who had stayed home for her sake, instead taking up a post in the city guard. It paid less than merchant guarding, but it meant he was there, and Dís did appreciate his presence. Dwalin was the rock, the one who kept their small family of dramatic romantics from falling apart, she knew. He was the reason her mother was even a little happy, because he made Thorin happy. He made Thorin a better King, and he was _always there_ when she needed a shoulder to lean on. Dís knew she could not have asked for a better brother by marriage, which was how she had seen Dwalin since she was still a child. Dís had been the first to see that Thorin’s infatuation with his oft-silent guard was more than friendship, and she had been the one to tell Dwalin it was okay. She had accepted his place in her family without comment, without judgement, and she would defend their right to each other until she was blue in the face if they asked. When her oldest son was born, she had introduced him to Dwalin as Uncle, not Cousin, and that was the first time she had seen Dwalin cry. Though he had been gone often, like Thorin, Dwalin had been there for the darkest day of her life, and she knew his absence would haunt her while she waited for news. Thorin had been gone for over a month already, meeting with the other Dwarf-Lords, and Dwalin had been the one to soothe her fears like so often before.

 

“I will protect them, **nunanu**[14],” Dwalin rumbled quietly into Dís’ hair. He would miss his little sister, but he would bring her sons back to her if it was at all possible. Silently he vowed that he would bring back Thorin too, though they both knew she would never ask him to. They both knew Thorin, after all, and Dís was certainly aware that both her brothers would rather die than let her boys come to harm. He pulled her close, letting her wet his beard with the tears she could not help but spill. He wished that Frís had still been alive. Neither he nor Thorin had wanted to leave Dís behind, if only because she was both a shrewd negotiator and a keen warrior, but someone had to take up the ruling of the Blue Mountain settlement. Dwalin avoided thinking of it as Thorinuldûm if he could, preferring to just call it Ered Luin. The fact that he could not marry his One was an old wound by now, but Dwalin still tried to avoid its keen sting. Living in a place called Thorin’s Halls, even if it wasn’t, was an everyday reminder of his love’s stubborn refusal to give up. Here on the last night in Dís’ house before they left on the first step of the Journey to Erebor, he felt an uneasy sense of hope. So much was riding on the success of this venture, though Dwalin could not help being reminded of the last expedition to Erebor he had been part of. With luck, they would avoid the Forest, where they had lost Thraín and most of his companions. Dwalin had never forgiven himself for living through those dark days of wandering the woods, he still did not know how he had made it out alive, but he swore that this time would be different. He would not – again – be the one to tell Dís that someone she loved was not coming home ever again. When her tears abated, he knelt before her. He knew Thorin had made his own oaths to her before he had left for the meeting with the Lords, but Dwalin did not know the words his Kurdel had said. “ **Abnathi aya targê, Dís. Zâshfatumuni rum izdnu duzi**.[15]” He pressed his lips against the back of her hand, sealing the oath as a subject to his sovereign. Dís smiled through tears when she cupped his face gently.

“ **Ishfitumun rum zefsu dê ya, nadadê**[16].” She said, and that was a clear command from a sovereign ruler to her subject, even if she called him brother. With a nod, Dwalin got to his feet, just as the door slammed and Kíli’s enthusiastic greeting rang out. He smiled. His nephews were good lads, and he felt great pride that they were coming along on the quest, even if the thought also filled him with dread. When Kíli bounced into the room, Dwalin saw the shadows the lad tried to hide from his Amad’s sharp gaze, something he only managed because she was too busy hiding the ones that haunted her own eyes. He squeezed her hand once, and then took himself off to join Balin who was packing the last things they’d need. When his own pack was to his liking, Dwalin started on the saddlebags, tracing Kíli’s maker’s mark proudly. The lad had worked hard, making presents for his family. Thorin had received new vambraces for his Nameday and Dwalin’s knuckledusters had been given new leather straps that were already softer than the old ones had been after years of use. Kíli had also made all their packs, stitching in clever pockets and adorning each object with the owner’s name sewn in luck-knots he had learned from Nori. Dís’ contribution to their gear – aside from a vast supply of jerky and cram – was a rainproof cloak for each of them, which Dwalin appreciated greatly, even if the lads had disdained the present. Dís knew that the weather might not be the most dangerous thing they could face on their journey, but it could certainly be a disheartening factor when one was wet and cold and tired, so Dwalin had made sure they thanked her properly for her forethought. With a sigh, he noticed a corner of Fíli’s cloak sticking out from underneath the lad’s bed, and sure enough, rooting around under the frame he unearthed Kíli’s cloak too. He almost decided to leave them out of spite, but his heart would not let him leave his rascally nephews to catch a chill, so instead Dwalin stuffed the two cloaks into his own saddlebags. Balin smirked at him, but he did not say a word. Balin rarely needed to speak for Dwalin to know what he was thinking anyway, but that expression only meant one thing: _you big sap_. With a huff, Dwalin turned back to the task of trying to find space for Kíli’s cloak, which would not fit. Eventually Balin sighed, that exasperated sigh of older siblings that Dwalin _hated_ and took the cloak, packing it in his own saddlebag. Dwalin returned his earlier smirk and when Balin shrugged, he knocked his forehead gently against his brother’s. They were both saps, after all, and they knew it.

 

 

 

 

###### notes:

[14] Tiny-sister

[15] I swear on my beard, Dís. I will bring them back to you.

[16] Bring back yourself to me also, brother-mine.


	14. Fíli's Farewell

Fíli spent most of his last day in Ered Luin on the training grounds. He had had his first round of sparring with Master Dwalin – in the rings or at lessons, Dwalin was never his Uncle, Fíli had learned many years before – but afterwards he had gone up against anyone who fancied it. He took special pleasure in handing Vani his arse on a platter, having never forgiven the other young Dwarf for calling his baby brother a half-elven bastard. Fíli smirked, watching the guard-in-training wince when he staggered to his feet, obviously nursing a significant bruise on his thigh already. Not that Fíli had fought unfairly – was it unfair to use all your skills against an opponent, even if you had learned part of them from a shady character like Nori? – and he had even let Vani pick the weapons, but the sight still made a certain amount of unholy glee suffuse Fíli’s heart. Not that he hadn’t beaten up the cretin when the incident had occurred, but Fíli would never forget the look on Kíli’s face that day, and he would never forgive the people who thought they could put such sadness in his brother’s eyes unpunished. Kíli might be the one who looked most like Thorin, but Fíli had definitely inherited his share of traits from that side of their family too, among which was his ability to hold a grudge.

This sand, stained with a little blood here and there and more than a little sweat at the end of the day, had been his favourite place growing up. Coming to the rings was an excuse to let his mind ignore all the troubles that came with being the Heir to an exiled King, and simply let himself be _Fíli_. Thorin had never begrudged him the freedom he found here, had often joined him, in fact, usually sparring with Dwalin, in a dance – they were both to attuned to each other that their duels most often looked like choreographed dances – far wilder and more beautiful than Fíli thought he could ever manage. When Thorin wielded Deathless and Dwalin’s hands held Grasper and Keeper, the Uzbad and the Shumrozbid looked like they were one soul, and Fíli had often wondered if those who claimed that his uncles were not One had ever seen them fight. Even to his young eyes, the first time Amad took him to the rings to watch at the age of ten, Dwalin and Thorin looked right together. Before he even understood the concept of Ones, Fíli had been jealous. He wanted to find that connection for himself, wanted to feel the way Thorin’s eyes looked when his Uncle watched Uncle Dwalin and experience what it felt like to be One with another person. Fíli had also known, though he did not remember when he realised, that his Amad felt a certain bittersweet pain observing her brother and his One, which made Fíli oddly pleased, because it meant this _his_ parents had also been One, and that was oddly satisfying to a Dwarfling who barely remembered his father’s face. Fíli did not think of Víli often, though sometimes his face would appear in his mind, never quite clear it seemed. Having been only four summers at the time of his father’s death, Fíli had barely been old enough to see clearly, let alone form true lasting memories. Instead, his role of father had been filled by Uncles Thorin, Dwalin, and Balin, as well as his pseudo-uncles, Glóin and Óin, but sometimes Fíli found himself wondering if his real Adad would have been proud of the Dwarf he was becoming. Víli, who had been born into a family of miners and builders, had never cared much for the riches of Erebor or the Royal status of his wife’s kin. In Dís’ stories, Víli had been a Dwarf of simple pleasures, and Fíli wondered what he would have said about this Quest for Erebor. He had a feeling that Víli would not have forbidden him going, but the reclamation of Erebor would have meant very little to him, compared to what it meant to those born in the Clan of Durin.

In that frame of mind, Fíli went to his Adad’s tomb late in the afternoon, when he had tired himself out. Next to Víli’s stone lay Amadel’s and Fíli knew that Frís would have been proud of her son and grandsons, even if she would also have called them all reckless fools. Pressing his fingers to his mouth, he blew her stone a kiss. Thorin had – in keeping with Erebor tradition – carved a statue of Frís, which would be moved to Erebor when it was reclaimed. The base of the statue contained Amadel’s ashes. In Erebor, as well as Ered Mithrim before it, the Royal family would have been interred in great sarcophagi with their effigies carved into relief atop them. In the Blue Mountains, however, tradition – brought on most  likely by the abhorrent lack of unflooded deeper levels and general space to put them – dictated that the dead be burned and the ashes collected and put into small stone caskets, which the family could then do with what they wished. Most were stored in the Hall of Souls, the mausoleum built for the purpose. Víli, whose family had not believed in the Erebor custom of depicting the dead, had demanded that his ashes be put in the traditional casket, and Dís – newly pregnant, and still in shock at the time – had not had the wherewithal to protest. They had pictures of Víli at home, of course, but the square box looked oddly barren next to the statues of Amadel, Grandfather Thraín, and Great Grandfather Thrór. Thraín’s statue held no ash, of course, for he had disappeared rather than died and his body had never been recovered. Carving the statue had been Thorin’s most obvious sign that his long search for answers was finally over. Fíli remembered the night he had come home, filled with the fire of Erebor reclaimed – Dís had been equally fiery, though for quite opposing reasons, and their row had been _loud_ – and he had seen the final acceptance of the Wizard’s word on Thraín’s fate carve itself into Thorin’s face. Thrór’s statue had always scared Fíli a little. It had been carved by Thraín, before he went off to fight a 6 years long war against the Orcs that culminated in the Battle of Azanulbizar, and there was something unsettling about the face, maybe the eyes, which made Fíli dislike it. Of course, those who had died at Azanulbizar were collectively known as the Burned Ones, and a memorial was held each year on the anniversary of the battle. The dead, numbered beyond grief as Balin called it, had been burned on great pyres, but they had not been returned to the stone – a stain upon the honour of all Dwarrow – instead the ashes had been left to be scattered by the wind across the valley floor. Looking at Víli’s box made no flashes of insight appear in his mind and Fíli sighed, patting it gently as he left.

When he made it back to the house, he could hear Balin and Dwalin moving about in their room – officially it belonged to both Fundinuls, though Dwalin’s room was really Thorin’s room, but the Shumrozbid preferred to stay with Balin when Thorin was gone. Since Azanulbizar, Dwalin had not liked sleeping without someone else in the room, one of the milder effects of the horrors of that battle that Fíli had heard of. Amad and Kíli were in the kitchen, preparing dinner by the sound of it and Fíli snuck in, trying to be as quiet as Nori – he didn’t know if he succeeded, but Kíli always knew when he was near either way, so that wasn’t a surprise – and stole a small morsel of apple from the cutting board.

Lounging on his bed, after they had been turfed out of the kitchen by Dwalin, Fíli watched Kíli begin the intricate work of assembling their Amad’s Leaving Gift. He did not see any problem with breaking tradition in this way, and he had more than encouraged Kíli’s idea. When his baby brother told him of his conversation with Cousin Gimli, Fíli drew a small sigh of relief. Kíli had managed to find a frankly ingenious solution to the worry Fíli had most struggled with in regards to the whole venture: leaving their Amad behind, alone and lonely. With a new spring in his step, Fíli turned his attention to packing, and when he was done, he gave Kíli and approving pat on the shoulder – the bracelet was looking good too – and went off to spend a few more hours in the company of his Amad.

 


	15. Kíli's Promise

When Kíli returned home, after sending Gimli back to his house, he felt lighter than he had for days. Amad would be fine while they were gone, he knew, for Gimli was – even if Kíli would never admit it – probably more responsible than himself, and his little cousin would keep his promise. Entering the house, he called out his customary greeting and took the stairs three at a time up to his room, dropping a small bag of stones on his bed. He would weave them into a bracelet for Amad’s leaving gift later. It was traditional that those left behind gave a leaving gift to someone going on a Quest like this, but Kíli had never been traditional. The beads, chosen to represent each member of their small family, had been difficult to find, and he had only just managed to obtain a bead of lapis lazuli this afternoon. Fíli’s soul-stone was rare in this part of the world, but one of Glóin’s friends had managed to get it back here in time, and Kíli was glad that the idea had occurred to him so soon after Thorin had come home with a tale of meeting a wizard instead of finding his father. Kíli skipped downstairs, waving at Balin who was going over his pack with a slight frown. Kíli felt bad that he hadn’t packed yet, but neither had Fíli, who was nowhere to be seen and Dwalin was apparently only half-finished, so his guilt lessened. Instead, he joined his Amad in the kitchen, helping her make dinner and talked about inconsequential nothings while sneaking samples. He would miss her cooking, Kíli thought, wrapping his lanky form around Dís in a tight hug at the thought. Dís simply patted his arm, returning to stirring her pot. Kíli vaguely felt someone appear behind him, but Fíli’s presence near him was so familiar that it hardly registered. The extra set of arms that wrapped around both of them were welcome, and when Fíli snuck a bite of fruit from Kíli’s chopping board, he couldn’t help but laugh at the familiarity of the act. Fíli had inherited Thorin’s skill in the kitchen – and was banned from all but the simplest kitchen duties, usually ‘Do the washing up, Fíli, dear.’ – but he would often sneak in anyway and steal nibbles while Dís cooked.

“Oi, wee rascal,” came their Uncle’s voice behind them. “Leave your Amad’s pot alone and go sort out your gear,” Dwalin rumbled, turfing Kíli away and taking over the knife and board, also a familiar sight. As Dís said, Dwalin was the only one of them she’d allow free reign in her kitchen, which Kíli couldn’t protest; he was a lot better than Fíli or Uncle Thorin, but he had a tendency to get distracted in the middle of a task which usually ended with slightly burnt food. With a thankful smile, Fíli disappeared into their room, and Kíli followed on his heels. Instead of packing, however, the youngest Prince grabbed up his bag of stones and the leather cord he was going to use for Dís’ bracelet. Fíli, who had been instrumental in procuring and choosing several of the stones, as well as carving their name-runes, lounged on his bed, watching as Kíli poured the stones into his hand. Some of them, Fíli had wrapped in silver filigree, which made the gift as much his as Kíli's, though he didn’t help braid the stones into the leather. The Lapis Lazuli bead had a small  carved into the side and the labradorite a . There was a bead of bloodstone for Thorin, a yellow turquoise for Balin, a jade bead for Óin, green epidote quartz for Glóin and a bead of aquamarine for Dwalin. He had also added a carnelian marked with Dís’ own rune, though he had not added beads for the rest of the Company whom he didn’t know well. Bifur, the scary friend of Dwalin’s with the axe in his head, had made the small stones sing with hope. He had explained – through Bofur’s canny interpretations – that small stones put together should all hold the same emotion, otherwise the wearer might get confused. The two brothers had chosen together, after long hours of discussion. Hope was better than _love_ which they had wanted to use at first, but as Fíli had wisely pointed out, gifting their Amad with a bracelet of love was perhaps a little too much like saying permanent goodbye and offering a token of remembrance. Under Kíli’s clever fingers, the length of braided leather cord quickly took shape. The runes on the beads all faced inwards, where they would press against Dís’ skin. Even if he said so himself, Kíli thought it was a pretty neat gift. When Fíli finished packing, he left their room with a clap on Kíli’s back and a smile of approval. Fíli was a silver-smith by trade, which necessitated some skill with jewel-crafting, but he had been adamant that Kíli should make the final bracelet with leather, so it would be a representation of both their Crafts.

 

 

Later, when his finished work had been oiled and polished properly, Kíli joined his brother in Dís’ rooms.

“Good, Kíli, you’re here.” She said. Both dwarrow could feel her tears threatening, but Dís was stronger than her emotions as she unwrapped a small parcel. On it lay two stones, slightly smaller than Kíli’s palm. One was black, a labradorite which would have a green sheen in the light, Kíli could see. The other was made of lapis lazuli, a beautiful blue hue. When she turned over the stones, each had been inscribed with runes. Handing each of her sons their stone, Dís spoke, all the power of her long Royal line behind every word. “You WILL return to me, boys. Swear it.”

They did.

 

In the morning, Kíli tied the bracelet around her wrist just before they left. The brothers each kissed their stone and then pressed their lips to a cheek each, before mounting their ponies.

 

 

 

The stones stayed on their persons all the way through the Journey and the Battle with Smaug. Even when they had both found new armour, the stones found homes sewn into pockets over the heart. When the Battle was over, and Erebor defended, Fíli set the stones in silver, and each of them carried the token of their promise on a chain around the neck until Dís arrived and they could be given back, fulfilling the sworn oath.


	16. Dís Abandoned

When she handed Thorin the stone, she deliberately left the blank side up. She knew he would be expecting the – by now – familiar promise of ‘Return to me’, but this time, Dís had not felt that their usual ritual would suffice. Instead, that promise had been given to her sons, because – even if it had not worked with her father – that kind of Promise had always brought her brothers back to her. Dís had wondered – in her darkest moments – whether Frerin might have lived too, if he had promised his baby sister to return, but she had been young when they went to war against the Orcs, and she knew better than to torment herself with what-ifs. She never wondered if Víli might have, if he had carried such a stone in his pocket every day; she knew better. She knew her One, and the cave-in that had claimed his life had done so only because Víli had gone back inside to look for his younger cousin. He had saved the wee lad – whose first day on the job had left him scarred for life in more ways than one – but he had not been able to save himself. Looking at her brother now, she felt cold, chilled to her very bones. He was her family, the one who had always been with her, and with her Amad gone, Thorin felt like her only link to their forebears. Dís did not really remember Erebor, even though Frís and Thraín – and later Thorin and Dwalin, and even Balin – had told her stories of its splendour. Sometimes, she thought she could remember snippets of her old nursery, but they might as well have been made-up imagery based on one of Thorin’s tales. She did not want to lose her last link to the past, but she knew he had to go. She could see it in his eyes, the fervour that had burned there every time he spoke of finding their Adad, but now ten times more fiery as he spoke of reclaiming their lost homeland. Lost – it was such a quaint way of phrasing it, Dís thought, conquered might have been more accurate; stolen by a foe mightier than any they had fought before or since. **Innikhdê** – return to me – would not suffice for this Quest. The bloodstone – somehow, she had always thought Thorin’s Soul-stone to be remarkably aptly named, for he would give his blood to keep his oaths to her, she knew – had been carved with the tiniest runes she could manage.

 

  **“Izlîk e. Mudtuwê tagnigiya ya astû, Uthran, Kundanudê, nadadelê, mahishmir izdnu ya fa binuslukh. **[26]**”** she whispered, as he traced the words. “Swear it to me, Thorin.” She had said that line every time he had left her, and the familiar words were as much a part of their ritual as the giving of the stone. Thorin’s blue eyes stared at her, filling her soul with his love and warming her chilled bones. She knew he saw the despair writ across her face, but that was the beauty of it. With Thorin, she _could_ show such things on her face, and he would return the favour. Pulling her close, wrapping his large hand around the back of her head, Thorin pressed his forehead tightly against hers and Dís smiled to hear the words he whispered into the darkness of the night.

“ **’Ala abnathi **[27]**.” ** The words seemed to hang in the silence between them, soft breathing the only sound in the room. Dís nodded once, wrapping his fingers decisively around the stone that would hold his promise.

In the morning, she watched her brother ride off for the meeting with the Lords’ Council, and she wished she could go with him, even though she knew her duty lay here, in ruling their people in his absence. With a sigh, Dís returned to her house.

 

 

Dwalin’s stone did not have runes, because she knew that his Promise was already written across his heart and he did not need the reminder. The aquamarine she had procured to hold her wishes, however, was the especially rare kind that had a natural pattern of etches across the faces and in each tiny square she had painted a miniature luck-knot.

 

 

Balin’s stone – she was never sure if he actually believed they worked, but her old cousin humoured her anyway, and Dís loved him for it – a yellow turquoise she had been saving for a long time, simply held the word Silvertongue, and he accepted it with a silent nod. Dís gave him a smile that said everything and she knew Balin would understand what she meant without any explanation.

 

 

Giving the stones to Fíli and Kíli was far more difficult than she let on. She had done it before, when they went off to guard one of Glóin’s silver trading caravans, but it was different this time. This time, even if they were going with experienced fighters, she had very little guarantee that they would be well at the end of their journey. She managed to smile, however, and her sons did not disappoint her when they each took their stone with a solemn oath to fulfil the promise written on the smooth face of it.

 

 

As she watched her whole family leave, Dís felt her tears threaten once more. She was alone, but for Vár and wee Gimli, as well as Athalrún, but they were friends she had acquired when she was already adult, and they had not known her when she had been toddling around on Erebor’s green stone. Dís could not help but feel that nothing would ever be the same again.

Returning to her silent house, Dís felt very alone.

 

 

[26] Remember me. My heart goes with you, Darer, my wolfie, brother of all brothers, protect them with or without dragon.

 

[27] This I swear


	17. Thorin's arrival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thorin isn't exactly leaving home in this, but it is his last night before the Journey with the Company truly begins, so I posted it here anyway to round out the series.

When Thorin finally reached the borders of Hobbiton, in the Shire, this land of rolling green hills which he had traversed in his days as a travelling blacksmith – always under an assumed name; though Hobbits hardly seemed dangerous, the Heir of Durin could never be too careful with revealing his true identity – he was tired and weary of spirit, longing for a soft bed and a hearty meal. He had slept under trees or in barns, on his way back from the Lord’s Council, and the dust of the road clung to him. Looking at the directions he had been given, Thorin frowned slightly. He had asked Gandalf for directions, knowing that his sense of direction aboveground was spotty at best and dismal at worst. The wizard had written them down specifically, but – from the vantage point of the tallest hill outside Hobbiton, which the sign-post assured him he had reached, Thorin could _see_ the hill that he had been told to look for at the inn in Overhill; the highest hill in Hobbiton, and Bag End’s door was the green one almost at the top of the hill, which was crowned with a pair of cherry trees. Looking down at the directions Tharkûn had wanted him to follow, Thorin shook his head. He could see where he needed to go, and there was definitely no need to cross the river that was nowhere near Bag End’s hill, and certainly no need to cross it twice. Suspecting a plot underway, Thorin scowled, stuffing the list into his pocket. Though afternoon was long gone, he could see small Hobbits out for a stroll. With a whistle, he managed to get the attention of a couple likely looking lads.

“A few coppers to whoever will show me the way to Bag End, belonging to Master Baggins,” Thorin rumbled, holding up the coins.

“More Dwarves?” One Hobbit asked, but Thorin stopped himself from correcting his term for plural Dwarf, and simply nodded.

“Aye. I’m afraid I’ve lost the directions that were provided for me,” Thorin drawled, stuffing the piece of paper deeper into his pocket.

“Well, is just up on Bagshot Row,” Another Hobbit lad said, pushing his friend forward, “Ham can show you. He works for the gardener up there.” The Hobbit called Ham looked a little nervous, but he eyed the coppers Thorin was offering with some glee. Thorin idly wondered how much three coppers would buy in the Shire, but the lad looked like it was a goodly sum to him, and if it was too generous for the task, Thorin didn’t really care. He just wanted to arrive, find a seat that didn’t move beneath him, and obtain something to fill his growling belly. Gandalf had promised that Hobbits were masters of preparing food, and the fare he had been given when he stopped at the inn in Overhill, had proven the wizard – as well as Thorin’s memory – correct in that regard.

“Yes, Ham Gamgee, at your service, Mister Dwarf.” The nervous one finally spoke, his voice as young as he looked. Thorin wondered why anyone would name their child Ham, which seemed slightly cruel, especially as Hobbits in general looked to be plump and round, surely being named Ham would inspire all sorts of cruelty in the other children?

“They call me Oaks, Master Gamgee. Lead the way,” Thorin replied, before clicking his tongue at his mount. Beryl was a steady pony, good-natured and capable of long journeys, but Thorin still missed his first real pony, the one he had been made to train in Erebor as part of his royal upbringing. Biter had been aptly named, a black beast with the temper of an orc. Thorin had loved him deeply, and Biter had loved his master in return, though his personality was difficult in regards to anyone else. The stable hands had refused to touch the black pony, which Thorin had chosen because its coat was the same colour as his own hair, and eventually the stable master had agreed with the King -perhaps the other way around – that Biter was the Prince’s sole responsibility.

Following the young hobbit through the winding roads – given the roundness of the hills, finding a straight stretch of road anywhere in the Shire was difficult – Thorin was happy he had paid the lad to show him the right way. There were certainly no rivers crossed whatsoever, and Thorin felt smug that he had thus avoided the Wizard’s obvious trap. When they reached a small field where Thorin could see the mounts that could only belong to his companions, the young hobbit also managed to shout up the Hobbit who owned it, and bartered for Thorin’s pony’s permission to graze as well. This young Ham Gamgee had definitely earned his coppers, Thorin thought, as he swung down from the saddle, storing it as well as his saddle bags in the small shed the older hobbit pointed out. Thorin didn’t tell them that he was capable of seeing more easily without the lamp that the older hobbit was holding high above his head in the rapidly darkening evening. When his things were satisfactorily stored, Thorin made his way back to the waiting Ham, waving away the offer of a torch to light their way. Instead he followed Ham as he picked another small trail winding its way up and around the hill – Bagshot Row, perhaps? – and enjoyed the balmy spring evening. At the garden gate, Thorin handed over four coppers, which made the tongue-tied hobbit flush nervously once more, trying to give him back one of the coins, but Thorin gently pushed him on his way.

From the open window, next to the door, he could hear the sounds of a merry party, _that_ was definitely Fíli and Kíli beginning a Dwarfling game of Keep-Away with the dinner plates accompanied by raucous song. Good thing their host had a four-syllable name, really, fitting in place of Princess Ketla about whom the song had been written. No one remembered who princess Ketla was or whether it was a made-up character, but the song and the game were at least 2000 years old, and something they used to do at all feasts to show off their agility and coordination, Thorin knew. Of course, it was a far larger event during feasts, but families would play it at home as well. Dís had a fiendish overhand throw which always made Balin scramble to keep up, and never failed to make Dwalin laugh at his graceless hops to catch whatever she had tossed. Thorin sat down on the conveniently located bench beneath the window, and pulled out his pipe for a smoke. If the wizard expected him to be late, he might as well take advantage and enjoy the sounds of mirth a little while longer, he thought, before he went in there and they all had to act serious in front of their King once more. Not that his disappointing – if not unexpected – news would not have killed the party mood as soon as he told them anyway, and Thorin had missed the sounds of his nephews playing and happy while he was away. So often, these past few years especially, the two rascals hid their more mischievous sides from his view in order to appear more grown-up, as if he did not already know exactly what they were like. Fíli, especially, had a tendency to act far more serious than he really was, and Thorin preferred it when his smiles reminded him of both Frerin and Víli, which was what Fíli sounded like right at this moment, singing about grinding up crockery with thumping poles. Thorin chuckled. As young dwarflings, his nephews had loved coming up with new verses for Princess Ketla’s unfortunate possessions, and he hummed along quietly around the stem of his pipe when Kíli’s next bid for the plates would be rolling the still whole ones down the hall. Thorin was reminded of the time – not during one of their after-dinner clean-up games – when the two had wanted to see if you could actually roll plates down the hall. Dís had been livid, though he had been the target of her ire rather than the lads, as he had – instead of stopping them – joined in the game seriously, going so far as to finding a measuring rope so they could have a contest. His only defence at the time – and Dís’ eyes had twinkled even as she had given him what for, which meant she was more amused than angry, but felt he needed scolding anyway – had been that he _had_ made them use the old clay plates they had made when they first settled in Ered Luin, which no one actually used for eating anymore, as they were the product of Dís’ first – and only – attempt at learning pottery. Behind him came a high voice, obviously their host, squeaking in fright and yelling something about antiques, which was Thorin’s first clue that the Hobbit knew absolutely nothing about Dwarrow culture. He sighed. The song was winding down, and his pipe was finished, it was time to join the merry Company and bring in a dose of harsh reality once more. Getting to his feet Thorin knocked loudly at the door, just as the song was finished.

“He’s here!” floated out to him, through the still open window. Thorin smirked. The Wizard did not sound pleased; he obviously wasn’t late enough. The door opened. Gandalf looked a little nervous. Thorin shot him a smirk, which made him look even more apprehensive.

“I lost my way…” he paused, before adding, just because of the two river crossings in the directions, “…twice.” While stuffing his pipe into his tunic, a motion definitely caught by the wizard’s eye, Thorin stepped across the threshold. “So,” He stared at the beardless person in front of him, this Bilbo Baggins. Not a very impressive sight, all things be told, and once more Thorin questioned whether wizards could go senile in old age. The plump creature gaping at him did not look anything like a burglar, let alone an experienced adventurer, Thorin thought. In truth, he looked about ready to die of fright just standing there as Thorin’s gaze swept over him to find Dwalin’s sardonic amusement glittering at him, as always knowing exactly what Thorin thought without having to say it out loud. “This is the Hobbit.”


End file.
